W$t  library 


of  tfje 


Wfyte  book  foms  presented 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,  and  is  subject  to  a  fine  of  FIVE  CENTS 
a  day  thereafter.  It  was  taken  out  on  the  day 
indicated  below: 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/gemtokenofaffectOOphil 


Published  by  Henry  EAnrteis. 


p-n  r 
ltJ  L 


3mm 


TOKEN   OF   AFFECTION 


FOR 


n_,-i 

Lpj 


PIW3LA®!l!L!P>!!}a!IA" 


8"5 


CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  London  and  Country  Cousin 9 

Maternal  Affection 18 

The  Young  Basket-Maker 32 

The  Faithful  Guardian 44 

Mental  Communion 75 

Elsie  Grey,  or  the  Young  Cottager 78 

On  seeing  a  Portrait 95 

Poor  Little  Lucy 97 

A  Companion 113 

The  Industry  of  Idleness 115 

The  Young  Emigrant 138 

The  Young  Traveller 154 

Henrietta  173 

Visit  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Judson 175 

Humility 178 

The  Robin 179 

Sonnet 183 

Sonnet 184 

The  Idle  Schoolboy 185 

Emulation 203 

The  Autumn  Walk 205 

Boyhood  and  Manhood 207 

Flowers  for  the  Heart 220 

The  Laburnum 222 

The  Girls'  School 224 

A  Little  Child 227 


4  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

The  Remembrance  of  Youth  is  a  Sigh 229 

Stanzas 230 

The  Drawing-Book 232 

The  Air  Orchis 242 

Stanzas 243 

The  Transplanted  Flowers 245 

Herewald's  Funeral  247 

The  Pilgrim 250 

Psalm  XXIII 252 


THE    LONDON    COUSIN 

AND 

COUNTRY   COUSIN. 

A     SKETCH     FROM     LIFE. 
BY   MISS    MITFORD. 

"  And  do  you  really  intend  to  walk  out  in  this 
wind?"  said  Caroline  Selby,  the  only  daughter 
and  heiress  of  Selby  Park,  to  her  young  cousin, 
Lucy  Moore,  a  London  girl,  who  had  recently 
arrived  on  a  visit  at  the  Park,  and  who,  eman- 
cipated, for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life,  from 
the  restraints  and  confinement  of  a  great  city, 
enjoyed  the  liberty  and  fresh  air  of  the  country, 
with  a  zest  which  her  delicate  and  luxurious 
kinswoman  had  some  difficulty  in  comprehend- 
ing.    "  Can  you  really  face  this  wind?" 

"  Can  I?"  replied  Lucy,  gayly ;  "  Can  I  not? 
Did  you  not  promise,  only  last  night,  to  show  me 
your  flowers  and  your  birds,  your  conservatories, 
and  green-houses,  and  hot-houses,  and  flower- 
gardens,  your  aviary,  and  your  pheasantry  ?     Did 


10  THE    LONDON    COUSIN 

not  my  aunt  charge  me  not  to  let  you  forget  your 
promise,  and  to  go  to  none  of  them  without  you  ? 
Confess  this,  Caroline ;  and  what  but  wind — 
bright,  keen,  sunny,  invigorating  wind — can  we 
look  for  in  the  blowy  month  of  March?  Did 
you  never  hear  Sheridan's  rhyming  Calendar? 

"  January,  snowy , 
February,  flowy  ; 
March,  blowy ; 
April,  showery; 
May,  flowery ; 
June,  bowery; 
July,  moppy ; 
August,  croppy ; 
September,  poppy ; 
October,  breezy ; 
November,  wheezy ; 
December,  freezy." — 

"  Why,  one  would  almost  as  soon  object  to  the 
sun  in  June,  as  to  the  wind,  the  rough,  pleasant 
wind,  that  sends  one  home  running,  glowing, 
laughing  at  one  knows  not  what,  in  this  same 
month  of  March.  But  perhaps  you  do  object 
to  the  sun  in  summer  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Caroline,  gravely  ;  "  I 
never  go  out  in  the  summer  except  in  the  pony 


AND    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  11 

phaeton ;  as  to  walking,  I  never  dream  of  such  a 
thing." 

"Never  walk  in  the  summer!"  exclaimed 
Lucy.  "  Live  in  this  beautiful  place,  which  we 
poor  Londoners  think  it  a  privilege  only  to  see, 
and  be  content  to  drive  about  it  only  in  a  car- 
riage !  Oh !  my  dear  cousin,  what  would  we 
give  for  these  lawns  to  run  about  in  !  And  you 
really  do  not  walk  1  Can  such  a  thing  be  pos- 
sible?" 

"I  very  seldom  do  walk,  as  I  said  before," 
replied  Miss  Selby,  "  and  most  certainly  I  am  not 
going  out  this  morning ;  and  I  can't  imagine  why 
you  should  wish  to  go  to  get  coarse  and  sun-burnt 
and  freckled  in  this  wind,  when  you  know  that 
next  Monday  is  my  birth-day,  and  we  are  to  have 
half  the  country  at  our  Children's  Ball ! " 

"  Well ! "  said  Lucy,  suppressing  a  smile,  "  I 
grant  the  importance  of  looking  well  at  the  ball, 
especially  for  you,  who  are  its  heroine.  But  are 
you  not  afraid  of  growing  wan  and  pale  for  want 
of  exercise,  sitting  all  day  after  lessons  are  done, 
poring  over  that  embroidery,  and  making  so 
dismal  a  waste  of  floss  silk  and  gold  thread! 
Come  and  show  me  the  pheasants  and  the  flow- 
ers, if  only  for  the  sake  of  your  complexion." 

"Oh,  no!"  rejoined  her  cousin,  "one  has 
always  exercise  enough  with  skipping  and  the 


12  THE    LONDON    COUSIN 

dumb-bells ;  and  just  now  I  have  to  practise  my 
shawl-dance,  which  Taglioni  brought  out  at  her 
benefit,  and  which  I  have  promised  mamma  to 
dance  on  Wednesday.  No  fear  of  my  wanting 
exercise,  I  promise  you  ! " 

"  And  you  really  won't  come,  then ! "  exclaimed 
Lucy,  somewhat  disappointed ;  "  well,  perhaps  the 
day  may  be  calmer  to-morrow,  for  Lady  Selby 
desired  me  not  to  go  to  the  garden  or  the  aviary 
without  you,  and  of  course  I  shall  not  think  of 
disobeying  her.  I  dare  say  the  wind  will  be 
stiller  to-morrow ;  and  in  the  mean  time  I'll  hunt 
up  the  old  Bailiff,  and  get  him  to  give  me  a 
lesson  in  agriculture,  so  that  I  may  not  mistake 
wheat  for  grass  again,  as  happened  yesterday,  to 
the  immortal  honor  of  my  cockneyship.  It  is  a 
mercy  I  did  not  take  the  contents  of  the  field  for 
a  crop  of  clover,  or  turnips ;  for,  they  being  all 
green,  the  thing  might  have  happened ! "  added 
Lucy,  as  she  ran  away,  laughing  at  her  own 
blunders,  the  gayest  and  happiest  creature  that 
ever  gladdened  that  often  dull  place,  a  quiet 
home  in  a  great  city. 

Lucy  Moore  had  the  great  advantage  of  being 
the  daughter  of  a  man  of  considerable  talent 
and  limited  income.     Her  father  was  a  barrister 
who  had  at  last,  by  patience  and  assiduity,  come 
through  the  long  probation  which  that  most  diffi- 


AND    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  13 

cult  and  uncertain  of  all  professions  requires  in 
England,  and  was  now  rapidly  rising  in  practice 
and  in  reputation ;  but  as  his  private  fortune  was 
small,  and  his  family  large,  he  continued  to  live 
in  the  most  prudent  and  moderate  style,  so  that 
his  daughter,  unspoiled  either  by  over  indulgence 
or  over  education,  (those  two  dangers  of  the 
children  of  the  rich,)  accustomed  to  make  her 
own  amusements,  and  to  find  gratification  in  the 
simplest  pleasures,  brought  into  the  country  those 
prime  requisites  for  enjoyment,  a  healthy  mind 
and  a  healthy  body. 

Her  cousin,  on  the  other  hand,  the  petted 
heiress  of  a  wealthy  and  widowed  mother,  and 
the  flattered  pupil  of  a  fashionable  governess, 
was  already,  at  thirteen,  a  complete  specimen  of 
a  modern  fine  lady ;  vain,  selfish,  indolent,  and 
only  to  be  roused  into  exertion  by  the  desire  of 
display.  Lady  Selby,  idolizing  mother  though 
she  were,  had  yet,  upon  a  casual  visit  to  her 
sister,  been  struck  with  the  difference  between 
the  fretful  languor  of  Caroline  and  the  good- 
humored  cheerfulness  of  her  cousin,  and  had 
invited  Lucy  to  the  Park,  with  a  latent  though 
unacknowledged  wish  that  the  animation  and 
sweetness,  which  she  found  so  delightful,  might 
prove  contagious;  and  partly  from  a  desire  to 
keep  the  girls  constantly  together,  partly  from  a 


14  THE    LONDON    COUSIN 

hint  from  her  family  physician  on  the  advantage 
of  air  and  exercise,  arose  the  charge  to  Lucy, 
not  to  visit  the  conservatory  or  the  flower-garden, 
the  pheasantry  or  the  aviary,  without  Miss 
Caroline. 

Well,  however,  as  Lucy  loved  flowers  and 
birds,  and  much  as  she  had  heard  of  the 
splendor  of  her  cousin's  collection,  she  con- 
trived to  find  plenty  of  amusement  in  her  morn- 
ing's walk  without  their  aid.  Her  friend,  the 
old  Bailiff,  enraptured  with  her  frankness,  her 
gayety,  her  intelligence,  and  her  ignorance,  (for 
the  youthful  ignorance  that  seeks  for  information 
is  always  charming,)  led  her  half  over  his  own 
territories,  the  home  farm,  and  not  only  gave  her 
the  desired  instruction  on  grains  and  grasses,  but 
volunteered  a  lesson  on  shrubs  and  trees,  and 
timber  in  general,  from  the  budding  hazel  to  the 
rugged  oak,  to  which  his  little  grandson,  a  lad 
about  nine  years  of  age,  who  accompanied  them, 
added  a  practical  lecture  on  those  inhabitants  of 
tree-tops,  called  birds,  with  their  sayings  and 
doings,  in  the  shape  of  songs  and  birds-nests ;  so 
that  between  her  two  companions,  Edward  and 
his  grandfather,  Lucy  had  never  been  more 
gratified. 

This  happened  on  a  Tuesday.  Wednesday 
was  still  windy,  and  Caroline  still  indisposed  for 


AN1>   COUNTRY    COUSIN  15 

any  exercise,  but  that  of  the  shawl-dance,  so 
that  Lucy  was  fain  to  have  recourse  to  the  escort 
of  Edward,  who  had  arrived  to  offer  his  services, 
with  a  present  of  a  string  of  birds-eggs,  half  a 
dozen  yards  long,  his  prime  treasure,  which,  had 
it  been  a  rope  of  pearls,  he  would  equally  have 
offered,  so  completely  had  Lucy's  sweet  manners 
won  his  heart.  He  was  but  too  happy  to  accom- 
pany her  about  the  park,  and  show  her  the  dells 
where  the  primroses  grew  thickest,  and  the  sunny 
banks,  where  the  purple  violets  literally  covered 
the  ground.  Thursday  was  damp;  and  Caroline, 
afraid  of  taking  cold,  stuck  to  her  embroidery 
and  her  shawl-dance.  Friday  was  cold,  and 
still  Miss  Caroline  dared  not  venture.  Saturday 
was  sunny,  intolerably  sunny,  and  the  fair  heiress 
feared  for  her  complexion.  Sunday  the  weather 
was  perfect,  neither  windy  nor  sunny,  nor  damp 
nor  cold,  but  Miss  Selby  having  ridden  to  church 
in  a  close  carriage,  she  could  not  walk.  Mon- 
day was  the  day  of  the  ball,  when  of  course  its 
young  heroine  never  dreamt  of  encountering 
additional  fatigue  ;  and  Lucy,  returning  from  her 
ramble,  was  thinking,  with  mingled  pleasure  and 
amusement,  that,  after  that  evening,  she  would 
stand  some  chance  of  seeing  the  birds  and  the 
flowers  which  she  had  now  been  a  week  in  the 


16  THE    LONDON    COUSIN 

house  without  catching  a  glimpse  of;  and  thai, 
at  all  events,  she  should,  after  that  night,  see  no 
more  of  the  shawl-dance,  of  which  (all  Taglioni 
as  Caroline  thought  herself)  her  cousin  began 
to  be  a  little  weary;  when,  on  entering  the  hall, 
she  found  the  whole  family  in  confusion  and  dis- 
may, surgeons  sent  for,  the  ball  postponed,  and 
the  entire  household  in  consternation.  Prac- 
tising the  eternal  shawl-dance,  and  using,  for  the 
first  time,  the  new  and  splendid  scarf  which  had 
been  sent  from  London  for  the  purpose,  Miss 
Selby's  foot  had  caught  in  the  drapery;  and 
after  refusing,  for  a  whole  week,  to  go  a  hundred 
yards  from  the  hall  door  with  her  visitor,  in 
order  to  preserve  herself  in  beauty  for  this  ball, 
a  worse  misfortune  than  taking  cold,  or  looking 
coarse,  or  tanned,  or  freckled,  had  befallen  the 
fair  Terpsichore — she  had  sprained  her  ankle ; 
and  the  Taglioni  dance  remained  undanced,  and 
the  festival  was  put  aside,  whilst  its  poor  heroine 
continued,  during  the  showery  month  of  April, 
and  the  flowery  month  of  May,  just  lifted  from 
her  bed  to  the  sofa,  fretting  over  her  compelled 
and  therefore  irksome  confinement,  and  longing 
for  nothing  so  much  as  the  power  of  getting  out 
with  Lucy,  her  kind  and  tender  nurse,  to  the 
conservatory  and  the  pheasantry,  the  aviary  and 


AND    COUNTRY    COUSIN.  17 

the  flower-garden,  making  virtuous  resolutions 
against  indolence  and  shawl-dances,  and  agree- 
ing in  the  sage  moral  deduced  by  her  cousin 
from  this  accident,  that  nothing  can  be  worse 
for  young  ladies  than  the  power  of  having,  at 
all  times  and  upon  all  occasions,  their  own  way. 
2* 


18 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

PAPA'S    LETTER 


BY   MRS.  S.  C.  HALL. 


"  A  letter  from  papa,  a  real  letter — paper,  and 
ink,  and  all ! — a  real  letter  from  dear  papa  in 
England,  to  his  little  ones  at  Philadelphia !  what 
a  treat !  how  happy  we  all  are !  nothing  in  the 
world  could  make  us  more  happy." 

"  Yes,  Ellen,"  replied  the  eldest  girl,  "  there 
is  something  would  make  us  more  happy." 

"  More  happy  ! "  repeated  Ellen. 

"  Yes,  more  happy — Papa,  himself.  Only 
fancy  how  happy,  and  how  grateful  we  shall  be 
to  God,  when  he  returns." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  will  bring  me  from  Lon- 
don," said  Robert,  who,  being  the  boy,  and  the 
only  boy  in  the  family,  was,  I  fear,  somewhat 
selfish. 

Emily,  the  eldest  daughter,  smiled,  and  replied, 
"  You  may  be  sure  papa  will  bring  to  us  what- 
ever will  be  most  useful  for  each  to  possess ;  and, 
above  all,  he  will    bring    back  that  affection. 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  19 

^rhich,  while  it  protects,  guides  and  blesses  us. 
1  do  pray  for  his  return,"  she  added,  fervently, 
dnd  then,  lowering  her  voice,  continued,  "  and  I 
pray  that  it  may  be  quickly,  when  I  see  how  ill 
and  pale  mamma  looks." 

"  I  do  not  think  mamma  looks  ill,"  said  little 
Ellen,  stealing  up  to  her  sister,  and  placing  her 
rosy  mouth  close  to  her  ear — "  I  do  not  think 
mamma  looks  ill ;  see  how  pink  her  cheek  is  now, 
and  how  her  eyes  brighten  while  she  reads 
papa's  letter."  Emily  sighed  heavily,  and  Ellen 
crept  to  her  mother,  and,  nestling  her  head  in  her 
lap,  and  twining  her  arm  around  the  thin  wrist, 
which  rested  on  Mrs.  Allan's  knee,  waited  with 
much  patience  till  she  had  finished. 

"Now  tell  me  all  papa  says,"  exclaimed  the 
little  girl  joyfully,  "  tell  me  every  word ! "  Mrs. 
Allan  folded  Ellen  to  her  bosom,  and  while  she 
pressed  her  lips  on  her  fair  brow,  Ellen  felt  one 
or  two  tears  fall  upon  her  cheek ;  her  little  heart 
saddened,  and  she  whispered,  "  Are  you  ill, 
mamma?"  Mrs.  Allan  made  no  reply.  "Is 
papa  ill,  mamma?"  "No,  dearest,"  answered 
her  mother;  "  thank  God,  he  is  well  and  happy, — 
as  happy  as  he  can  be  away  from  his  family.  He 
has  already  bought  for  you,  Robert,  a  most 
beautiful  lathe,  and  all  the  tools  you  desired  for 
your  workshop." 


20  MATERNAL    AFFECTION 

Robert  jumped  up  in  ecstasy — "  Oh,  how 
happy  I  am !  nothing  shall  ever  make  me  un- 
happy when  once  papa  comes  home  ! " 

"  For  you,  Emily,  he  has  purchased  a  piano, 
and  pencils,  and  books,  far  superior  to  any  that 
can  as  yet  be  procured  here." 

Emily's  quick  eye  brightened,  and  she  said, 
"  How  very  grateful  I  am  for  his  remembering 
me,  when  he  had  so  many,  many  things  to 
think  of!" 

"  But  you,  Emily,  knowing  something  of  the 
uncertainty  of  human  life,  and  the  vanity  of 
human  wishes,  do  not,  I  hope,  go  so  far  as  dear 
Robert,  and  say,  that  '  nothing  shall  ever  make 
you  unhappy  when  papa  comes  home.5 " 

While  Mrs.  Allan  pronounced  these  words, 
she  looked  seriously  at  her  daughter;  Emily 
perfectly  understood  her,  and  her  color  deepened  ; 
she  felt  a  sensation  of  suffocation  in  her  throat, 
and,  unable  to  restrain  her  feelings,  hid  her  face 
in  her  mother's  bosom,  and  wept  bitterly.  Rob- 
ert looked  sad  and  serious,  and  Ellen  cried  out- 
right, from  sweet  childish  sympathy,  because  hei 
sister  was  so  full  of  sorrow. 

"  My  dearest  Emmy,"  said  Mrs.  Allan,  "  1 
expected  more  fortitude  from  you — I  see  you 
understand  that,  from  your  dear  papa's  protracted 
absence,  the  probability  is,  that,  when  he  returns, 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  21 

you  will  have  no  mother.  You,  my  beloved 
children,  being  constantly  with  me,  are  not 
sensible  of  the  decay  by  which  it  has  pleased 
God  to  warn  me  of  approaching  death;  but  I 
feel  it.  I  have  prayed  to  the  Almighty  fervently 
in  the  night  time,  and  in  the  early  morning's 
watch,  that  I  might  be  spared  a  little,  little 
longer — at  least,  until  his  return;  but  it  is  in 
vain — it  is  not  God's  will  that  I  look  upon  my 
husband  again  in  this  world.  And  his  will  he 
done.  Emily,  my  first  dear  child,  say  with  me, 
'His  will  be  done.'  My  Robert,  you  must  not 
look  so  resolute  even  while  the  tears  are  running 
down  your  cheeks — bend  your  own  inclinations 
to  the  mandate  of  the  Lord,  and  say*  'His  will  be 
done ! '  It  is  an  early  trial ;  but  it  will  be 
sanctified  to  your  good;  it  will  teach  you  the 
vanity  of  human  wishes,  and  I  pray  that  it  may 
make  you  all  more  and  more  united. — Emily  is 
old  enough ; "  but  poor  Mrs.  Allan's  feelings  had 
exhausted  her  strength,  and  she  fainted  on  her 
daughter's  shoulder.  Robert  and  Ellen  began 
to  scream  and  wring  their  hands,  but  Emily 
entreated  them  to  be  calm,  and  in  humble 
imitation  of  that  mother  whom  she  so  tenderly 
loved,  and  whose  fortitude  she  endeavored  to 
possess,  she  procured  the  necessary  restoratives, 
and  laid  her  on  a  couch      It  was  a  beautiful 


22  MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

trait  in  Emily's  character,  the  steadiness  with 
which  she  labored  to  attain  the  most  useful 
acquirement  in  the  world — a  command  over  self. 
How  many  persons  have  I  seen  actually  useless 
members  of  society,  from  a  want  of  what  is 
called  presence  of  mind !  how  many  girls  will 
stand  still  and  scream,  instead  of  rendering 
assistance  !  how  many  will  shrink  from  the  sight 
of  a  wound,  instead  of  endeavoring  to  bind  it 
up,  and  so  relieve  the  sufferings  of  their  fellow- 
creatures  ! 

Women  would  do  well  to  remember — nor  can 
the  truth  be  impressed  upon  them  at  too  early 
an  age — that  all  the  brilliant  accomplishments, 
all  the  solid  information,  all  the  learning  in  the 
world,  are  nothing  worth,  in  comparison  to  a 
patient  and  cheerful  temper,  and  an  affection 
for,  and  perseverance  in,  the  moral  and  domestic 
duties  of  life.  Home  ought  to  be  the  temple  of 
a  virtuous  female;  she  may  leave  it  occasionally, 
and  be  happy  amid  the  beautiful  fruits  and 
flowers  of  the  world ;  but  let  her,  like  the  bee, 
gather  honey  from  them  all,  and  let  that  honey 
be  reserved  for  her  own  dwelling,  be  it  a  palace 
or  a  cottage.  No  one  felt  and  acted  upon  this 
principle  more  than  Mrs.  Allan ;  and  neither  the 
precept  nor  the  example  was  lost  upon  Emily. 
It  was  really  extraordinary  to  see  the  patience 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  23 

and  the  wisdom  of  a  girl  who  had  just  entered 
her  fourteenth  year;  how  she  watched  by  her 
mother's  sick  bed,  how  she  watched  her  brother's 
selfishness,  and  directed  Ellen's  ardent  temper  so 
that,  instead  of  being  a  torment,  she  became  a 
blessing  to  all  around  her;  and  above  all,  to 
observe  the  command  she  obtained  over  self — 
how  she  learned  to  restrain  her  tears  when  her 
mother  spoke  of  dying — how  she  bent  her  own 
desires  to  the  will  of  the  Almighty,  and  how 
truly  she  said  with  heart  and  life,  in  the  morning 
and  the  evening,  at  midnight  and  midday,  "  Thy 
will  be  doneP  Yet  Emily  was  far  from  being 
faultless ;  she  had  a  high  and  haughty  spirit, 
and  sometimes  a  strong  partiality  for  her  own 
opinion.  If  I  were  not  certain  that  my  dear 
friend,  Mrs.  Holland,  would  fill  her  annual  with 
far  prettier  stories  than  I  can  write,  I  would  tell 
the  little  American  lasses,  how  Emily  Allan  com- 
bated her  own  faults,  and  how,  in  addition  to  her 
prayers,  she  desired  that  a  right  spirit  might  be 
renewed  within  her.  Her  mother  continued 
growing  worse  and  worse,  and  at  last  endured  so 
much  pain,  that  the  physician  began  to  doubt 
that  her  complaint  was  consumption :  he  was 
not  by  any  means  wedded  to  his  own  opinion, 
and  suggested  the  propriety  of  having  additional 
advice :  in  the  mean  time,  letters  again  arrived 


24  MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

from  England,  and  one  in  particular  to  Emily, 
from  her  father,  saying  who  it  was  he  desired 
might  be  consulted ;  and  conjuring  her  to  watch 
over  her  mother  till  his  return,  which  would  be 
immediate. 

When  the  "  new  doctor,"  as  little  Ellen  called 
him,  arrived,  he  said  at  once,  that  the  physician 
had  been  at  first  mistaken,  but  now  was  in  the 
right ;  that  the  complaint  was  not  consumption, 
and  that  Mrs.  Allan  might  yet  be  restored  to  her 
family,  if  she  would  submit  to  an  operation :  this 
the  poor  sufferer  immediately  consented  to,  but 
added,  that,  as  Mr.  Allan  was  about  to  return  so 
much  sooner  than  she  had  dared  to  expect,  she 
would  wait  for  his  arrival.  "  I  should  not,"  she 
added,  "  have  strength  to  support  it,  if  not 
attended  by  some  relative,  some  one  whose  hand 
I  might  grasp,  and  feel  that  a  relative  was  with 
me." 

"  Mamma ! "  exclaimed  Emily,  "  dear  mamma, 
do  not  put  it  off;  delay  will  only  confirm  this 
horrid  disease ;  trust  to  me — I  will  stay  with  you, 
I  will  hold  your  hand,  I  will  neither  scream 
nor  faint ;  trust  me ;  I  have  seen  you  practise 
fortitude  too  frequently,  not  to  know  its  advan- 
tage." 

The  new  doctor  was  a  tall,  thin,  pale  French- 
man, not  quite  so  polite  as  Frenchmen  are  in 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  25 

general,  and  a  little  sarcastic.  "  Ma  foi,  Made- 
moiselle," he  said,  "  you  are  very  heroic ;  why, 
let  me  see,  you  cannot  be  twelve  years  old,  and 
yet  you  talk  of  being  present  at  an  operation 
which  I  would  not  hardly  suffer  my  junior  pupils 
to  attend ! " 

"  I  am  fourteen,  sir,"  replied  the  little  maid, 
drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height;  "I  have 
had  five  teeth  drawn  without  screaming;  I  have 
nursed  my  brother  through  the  hooping-cough, 
and  my  sister  in  the  measles."  She  paused,  and 
her  color  rose,  and  her  voice  faltered.  "I  have 
attended  my  mother  for  several  months,  nearly 
night  and  day,  when  I  feared — believed — that 
God  would  take  her  from  us — that  my  father 
would  return  to  a  desolate  home ! — and  now, 
when  a  chance,  a  blessed  chance,  a  more  than 
chance  presents  itself,  do  you  think,  sir,  that, 
because  I  am  so  very  little  of  my  age,  I  can- 
not have  strength  and  firmness!"  Again  she 
paused,  astonished  at  her  own  boldness,  and  not 
much  relieved  by  the  doctor's  patting  her  head, 
and  then  placing  his  hand  under  her  chin,  so 
as  to  turn  upwards  her  blushing  face;  saying, 
"Well,  my  little  maid,  we  shall  see;  the  first 
part  of  your  proposition  is  wise;  no  time  can 
be  lost,  no  time  must  be  lost ;  to-morrow,  1  will 
see  Mrs.  Allan ;  she  will  not,  for  the  sake  of  such 
3 


26  MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

dear  ties,  trifle  with  her  life."  Soon  after,  he 
left  the  chamber. 

Now  every  body  in  the  world  knows,  that  no 
young  lady  in  her  teens  likes  to  be  patted  on  the 
head.  I  have  seen  little  girls  of  twelve  turn  up> 
their  noses  at  it ;  but  to  "  Miss  in  her  teens,"  it 
savors  somewhat  of  an  insult;  whether  Emily 
Allan  did,  or  did  not,  look  upon  it  in  that  light, 
1  cannot  pretend  to  say ;  but  this  I  know,  that 
before  the  "new  doctor"  descended  to  the  hall, 
a  light,  small  hand  rested  on  his  arm,  and  soft 
blue  eyes  were  uplifted  to  his  countenance. 

"Doctor,  can  I  do  any  thing  to  convince  you 
that  my  fortitude,  if  you  trust  me  to-morrow,  will 
not  fail?"  inquired  Emily. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  really  a  very  surprising 
little  person ;  but  I  would  not  trust  one  of  my 
junior  pupils  to  hold  a  patient's  hand  under  such 
circumstances,  lest  they  might  shrink  or  tremble, 
and  so  lead  the  patient  to  suppose  they  were  in 
imminent  danger,  when,  perhaps,  the  danger  was 
over." 

"  Sir,"  she  persisted,  "  I  know  mamma  well, 
and  I  know  that,  if  I  were  with  her,  her  desire  to 
set  me  an  example  of  fortitude,  would  conquer 
her  feelings  of  pain,  and  enable  her  to  support 
her  sufferings  better ;  and  I  also  know  that  her 
tenderness  for  my  feelings  will  prompt  her  to 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  27 

wish  me  away,  though  you  can  imagine  how,  as 
she  is  far  from  her  own  relatives,  she  would 
naturally  desire  to  have,  as  she  said,  some  sup- 
port in  her  hour  of  trial."  The  doctor  looked 
astonished.  "  Put  my  resolution,  sir,  to  any 
test  you  please ;  draw  one,  two,  or  three  teeth, 
I  will  not  flinch — they  will  grow  again ;  I  would 
part  with  this  arm,  if  you  would  let  me  hold 
mamma's  hands  to-morrow  ! " 

"  You  are  so  earnest,  so  affectionate,  ma 
petite,"  replied  the  gentleman,  "  that  though  I 
have  no  inclination  to  draw  your  teeth,  I  would 
trust  you ;  but  it  was  only  last  week  that  one  of 
my  pupils  got  so  nervous  while  assisting  me  in 
an  operation  upon  a  woman,  that  she  was  near 
losing  her  life  from  his  inability  to  perform  his 
duty!" 

"Sir,"  exclaimed  Emily,  seizing  his  hand, 
"  she  was  not  7iis  mother ! "  The  worthy  man 
was  touched,  for  he  said,  "  Go,  you  are  a  good 
child,  a  very  good  child ;  you  must  know  my 
Madelaine ;  if  it  be  possible,  your  mother  shall 
be  saved.     I  think  you  may  be  trusted." 

"  Shall  I  tell  mamma  so,  sir  V  "  You  may ;  but 
mind  I  am  not  quite  certain;  do  not  say  what  I 
have  not  said — do  not  add  to  it."  "  I  have  been 
taught,  sir,  that  an  exaggeration  is  only  a  shabby 
untruth,"   replied  Emily       "  We  will  pray  for 


28  MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

strength;  and,  dear,  dear  sir,  I  am  sure  if  you 
agree,  you  will  not  repent  having  granted  my 
request." 

"  That  is  a  very  extraordinary  little  girl,"  said 
the  new  doctor  to  the  physician  who  had  pre- 
viously attended  Mrs.  Allan.  "She  is  indeed; 
her  mother  has  so  wTell  inculcated  the  benefits 
arising  from  self-possession,  that  I  have  been 
astonished  at  the  fortitude  she  so  systematically 
practises.  She  is  worthy  in  that  respect  to 
be  a  descendant  of  the  red  Indians." — "  O  ! " 
exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  taking  a  huge  pinch 
of  snuff, — "  O  !  we  shall  see ! " 

%r  %r  •&  4^  3fc 

Have  any  of  my  young  friends  seen  a  dear  and 
tender  parent  on  the  edge,  the  very  brink  of  the 
grave  ? — have  they  watched  day  by  day  her  hand 
grow  more  thin,  her  cheek  more  pale? — -have 
they  heard  the  blessed  words  of  comfort  from 
her  lips  ? — have  they  observed  how  she  clings  to 
them  with  all  a  mother's  tenderness;  and  yet, 
firmly  believing  in  the  wisdom  of  her  Father, 
her  heavenly  Father,  who  gives  her  strength  to 
support  her  sufferings,  commits  them  to  his  pro- 
tecting care,  in  full  reliance  on  his  mercy? — 
have  they  ever  gathered  for  her  sweet  flowers, 
and  then  thought  that  even  as  the  perfume  and 
beauty  was  departing  from  those  flowers,  was 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  29 

she  whom  they  loved  fading  from  the  earth? — - 
have  they  experienced  all  this,  and  then  when 
they  believed  that  the  time  was  at  hand,  and  that 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could  save  her  from 
the  grave,  has  hope  suddenly  burst  upon  them, 
have  they  heard  the  blessed  sound,  "  She  may 
yet  live  ! " — can  they  remember  the  sensations 
that  sound  created? 

If  they  cannot,  imagination  can  hardly  portray 
what  Mr.  Allan's  children  experienced,  when 
the  new  doctor,  and  their  old  friend  and  phy- 
sician, closely  followed  by  Emily,  entered  Mrs. 
Allan's  room  the  next  morning.  I  will  not 
harrow  up  either  my  reader's  feelings,  or  my 
own,  by  details  of  the  two  hours'  agony. 

Suffice  it,  that  Emily  was  so  far  mistress  of 
herself  as  to  be  declared  the  best  girl  in  Phila- 
delphia ;  which,  English  woman  though  I  am,  I 
am  willing  to  admit,  was  as  high  praise  as  if  she 
had  been  called  the  best  girl — not  quite  in  Lon- 
don, but  certainly  in  half  London,  or  whole 
Liverpool.  From  the  position  in  which  she  was 
placed,  she  could  only  see  her  mother's  face, 
which  she  bathed  with  strong  perfumes,  and 
watched  every  varying  tint  with  so  much  judg- 
ment, that  to  see  her  child's  calmness,  sustained 
Mrs.  Allan  through  the  whole.  When  it  was  all 
over ;  when  the  assurance  came  upon  her  that 
3* 


30  MATERNAL   AFFECTION. 

there  was  every  probability  of  her  beloved 
parent's  recovery ;  when  her  aid  was  no  longer 
necessary ;  when,  through  the  influence  of  a 
powerful  narcotic,  that  dear  mother  had  fallen 
into  a  heavy  sleep,  the  French  doctor,  who,  for 
many  hours,  never  left  the  room,  carried  the 
little  heroine  in  a  complete  state  of  exhaustion 
to  her  chamber,  where  Ellen,  with  her  face 
buried  in  cushions,  was  praying  on  her  knees 
for  dear  mamma,  and  sturdy  Robert,  his  lips 
white  and  trembling,  was  really  unable  to  ask 
how  his  mother  was. 

When  Emily  recovered,  what  think  you  she 
saw  on  a  chair  by  her  bedside  ?  "  A  letter  from 
papa?"  No — you  little  pale  girl,  guess;  "A 
present  from  papa?"  No — guess,  Miss  Rosy- 
lips,  again. — Well,  I  am  sure  that  sage  little 
maid  in  the  corner  will  surely  make  it  out;  can 
you  tell?  "No,  ma'am."  Then  you  all  give  it 
up  ?  It  was  Papa  himself  !  what  think  you  of 
that  as  a  surprise  ? 

"  I  can  assure  you,  sir,"  said  the  French 
doctor  to  Mr.  Allan,  "  if  that  young  lady  was  a 
young  gentleman,  he  ought  to  be  brought  up  to 
be  a  physician;  I  wish  you  joy,  sir,  of  your 
children!" 

The  thanksgiving  in  that  house  was  great! 

"And  now,"  said  Robert,  "I  may  be  happy; 


MATERNAL    AFFECTION.  31 

but  I  have  seen  so  much  sorrow,  that  I  will 
never  build  too  much  on  any  thing." — "  Except 
the  goodness  of  God,"  interrupted  Emily ;  "  and 
indeed  we  can  never  build  too  much  on  that, 
for  whether  in  joy  or  sorrow,  it  is  never  failing." 

"  You  are  always  wise,  Emily,"  said  Ellen. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  my  heart  is  so  full,  that 
I  could  weep  and  dance,  and  all  for  joy,  pure, 
pure  joy.  Do  you  know  that  in  less  than  a 
week,  our  new  doctor  says  mamma  will  be  able 
to  listen  to  the  tone  of  my  piano?" 

Wentworth  Cottage,  Fulham  Fields, 


£2 


THE  YOUNG  BASKET-MAKER 

A  STORY  FOUNDED  ON  FACTS. 

BY    SARAH    T.    WATLAND. 

Ijn  the  county  of  Cavan,  Ireland,  lived  a  lady 
distinguished  not  less  by  her  deeds  of  benevo- 
lence, than  by  the  elevation  of  her  rank.  Lady 
Farnham — for  that  was  her  name — was  one  0/ 
those  who  value  rank,  fortune,  and  influence,  as 
the  means  of  alleviating  misery,  and  elevating 
worth  from  the  obscurity  in  which  poverty  often 
conceals  it.  Though  the  various  avenues  of 
pleasure,  with  her  many  allurements,  were  always 
open  to  her,  she  chose  the  more  retired  walks  of 
usefulness,  and  in  the  planning  and  executing 
of  good,  found  ample  exercise  for  the  energies 
of  a  highly-gifted  mind. 

On  the  estate  of  this  lady  lived  a  family  of 
extreme  poverty ;  that  squalid,  loathsome  poverty, 
which  too  often  excites  our  disgust  at  the  time  our 
nand  is  extended  to  its  relief.  The  discerning 
eye  will,  however,  sometimes  "^distinguish  among 
its  victims  the   countenance  which  bespeaks  a 


THE    YOUNG   BASKET-MAKER.  33 

mind  destined  to  rise  above  the  grovelling  exist- 
ence to  which  it  is  at  present  confined.  Such 
was  the  face  that  presented  itself  to  Lady  Farn- 
ham,  asking  some  trifling  pittance,  as  she  was 
one  morning  stepping  into  her  carriage.  Lady 
F.  stopped,  and  looking  at  the  boy  for  a  moment, 
said,  "  But,  my  lad,  cannot  you  do  something? 
Cannot  you  earn,  instead  of  begging  your  bread  ? 
Make  me  a  basket ;  as  soon  as  you  have  finished 
it,  bring  it  here,  and  I  will  pay  you  well  for  it." 
The  idea  of  earning  what  before  had  been  re- 
ceived but  as  the  pittance  of  charity,  determined 
him  at  once  to  accomplish  the  task.  This  lady, 
thought  Ned,  will  pay  me;  yes,  she  says  she  will 
pay  me  well,  for  what  will  be  all  my  own  work. 
I  never  did  make  a  basket,  but  I  will  try,  and  1 
am  sure  I  can  make  one.  Did  not  this,  my  little 
readers,  show  that  Lady  F.  had  not  mistaken  in 
her  judgment  of  Ned's  face  ?  A  mean-spirited 
or  lazy  boy  would  not  have  reasoned  thus ;  he 
would  have  said,  I  don't  know  how  to  make  a 
basket,  and  I  won't  learn ;  I  should  then  have  to 
work,  and  I  don't  want  to ;  I  would  rather  get 
my  living  by  begging,  and  that  I'll  do. 

Ned  went  home,  and  set  himself  immediately 
to  work  at  his  basket.  He  encountered  many 
difficulties,  (for  he  had  no  one  to  teach  him,)  and 
though  sometimes  rather  perplexed,  he  was  never 


34  THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER. 

entirely  discouraged.  Perseverance  at  last  ao 
complislied  the  task,  and  with  a  happy  heart  he 
tripped  off  with  his  basket,  and  with  the  eager- 
ness of  boyhood  rang  rather  violently  at  the  door 
of  the  mansion  of  that  lady,  whose  kind  voice, 
and  encouraging  smile,  had  prompted  his  under- 
taking. The  footman,  who  answered  to  the  bell, 
was  one  who  had  not  been  long  in  Lady  F.'s 
employment,  and  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  poor 
and  needy  were  never  to  be  thrust  from  her  door. 
Destitute  of  the  penetration  of  his  mistress,  he 
regarded  Ned  merely  as  an  obtrusive  little  pau- 
per ;  and  when  he  inquired  whether  he  might  not 
see  the  lady,  who  had  promised  to  buy  his  basket, 
he  replied,  in  a  very  surly  manner,  that  no  one 
there  wanted  to  buy  such  a  basket;  that  they 
could  get  much  prettier  and  better  ones  at  the 
shops.  Ned's  enthusiasm  was  not  a  little  damped 
at  this,  and  the  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  could  not  choke  the  grief  which  filled 
his  heart,  when  the  footman,  pushing  him  from 
the  threshold,  shut  the  door  upon  him. 

He  was  descending  the  steps  slowly,  unwilling 
still  to  yield  his  purpose,  when,  accompanied  by 
a  lad  rather  older  than  himself,  whose  looks  Ned 
very  much  liked,  he  saw  the  very  lady  approach- 
ing. He  looked  at  his  basket,  looked  at  her ; 
joy  beamed  in  his  countenance,  and  as  his  eye 


THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER.  35 

met  the  eye  of  the  well-dressed,  handsome  lad 
that  accompanied  her,  this,  thought  he,  must  be 
my  dear  good  lady's  son ;  how  much  he  looks 
like  her !  She  did  not  recognize  Ned  at  first,  but 
as  soon  as  she  saw  the  basket,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Ah,  my  good  boy,  so  you  have  made  my 
basket ; "  and  taking  it  from  him,  she  com- 
mended its  neatness,  saying,  he  had  done  very 
well,  and  putting  into  his  hand  four  times  the 
value,  told  him  to  go  on  making  baskets,  and 
she  would  find  him  purchasers.  Ned's  frank, 
open  face  spoke  more  gratitude  than  he  could 
find  words  to  utter.  Clarence  looked  on  his 
dirty,  shabby  coat,  and  as  he  retired  from  the 
steps,  "  I  wish,  mother,"  said  he,  "  that  I  could 
give  that  boy  one  of  my  suits,  it  would  make  him 
look  so  nice."  His  mother,  though  pleased  with 
ne  feelings  that  dictated  the  proposal,  did  not 
favor  his  design,  fearing  she  might,  excite  vanity, 
when  she  wished  rather  to  encourage  a  habit  of 
industry,  which  would  insure  independence  to 
its  possessor.  "  My  dear  child,"  said  she,  "  if 
I  mistake  not,  that  boy  will  soon  clothe  himself. 
The  fruits  of  his  industry  will  raise  him  above 
the  necessity  of  wearing  your  clothes." 

From  this  incident  we  may  mark  the  dawn  in 
Ned's  fortune.  Till  this  time  he  had  never 
earned  a  farthing,  nor  known  the  pleasures  of 


36  THE    YOUNG    baw&ET-MAKER. 

independence.  He  felt  something  like  self- 
respect  as  he  walked  home,  resolving  to  expend 
his  money  in  the  purchase  of  materials  in  which 
he  could  improve  his  manufacture ;  and  he  de- 
termined he  would  make  baskets,  of  which  no 
one  could  say,  that  better  or  handsomer  could 
be  got. 

He  went  to  work  industriously,  and  in  a  few 
days  had  two  more  completed,  decidedly  better 
than  the  first.  These  met  the  approving  smile 
of  his  patroness,  and  ready  purchasers.  Thus 
Ned  went  on,  adopting  every  hint  of  improve- 
ment, till  his  baskets  were  reputed  the  best  and 
the  prettiest  that  could  be  purchased  in  Cavan ; 
and  Ned,  instead  of  the  dirty,  ragged  little 
urchin,  who  used  to  be  seen  shivering  at  one 
time,  and  sunning  himself  at  another,  in  the 
streets  of  his  native  village,  was  now  the  well- 
dressed,  respectable  lad,  whose  industry  and  per- 
severance were  the  praise  of  all. 

Though  Ned  was  industrious,  he  had  hours 
of  relaxation,  and  they  were  chiefly  spent  in 
producing  the  sweetest  sounds  of  which  it  was 
capable,  froij  m  old  violoncello  which  had  been 
given  him.  It  trequently  needed  repairs,  which 
his  own  ingenuity  accomplished,  and  he  at  length 
became  so  familiar  with  its  parts,  that  the 
thought  soon  suggested  itself  that  he  could  make 


THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER.  37 

one.  The  idea  no  sooner  occurred,  than  he 
immediately  employed  all  his  leisure  in  accom- 
plishing his  design.  Here,  however,  his  diffi- 
culties were  more  formidable  than  in  his  first 
efforts  of  basket-making ;  but  his  indefatigable 
perseverance  suffered  him  not  to  relinquish  it ; 
and  after  several  unsuccessful  efforts,  he  at 
length  conquered  all  difficulties ;  bought  a  favor- 
ite Irish  air,  and  practised  it  on  his  new  violon- 
cello, till  to  his  ear  the  execution  was  such,  that 
he  thought  he  would  venture  to  perform  it  in 
the  ear  of  his  patroness  and  friend. 

He  contrived  many  plans  by  which  he  hoped 
to  produce  an  agreeable  surprise  to  Lady  F., 
who  had  remained  quite  ignorant  of  the  subject 
which  had  wholly  engrossed  his  thoughts  for 
some  time.  At  last  he  decided  on  the  following 
expedient:  the  windows  of  Lady  Farnham's  bou- 
doir opened  on  a  beautiful  and  retired  part  of 
the  grounds,  to  wVnch  he  knew,  by  the  kind  inter- 
position of  Clarence,  he  might  have  access  with- 
out difficulty ;  he  therefore  took  the  first  oppor- 
tunity to  acquaint  him  with  his  design.  The 
benevolent-minded  boy  entered  at  once  into  the 
project,  and  informed  him  that  his  mother  had 
for  several  days  been  confined  to  her  room  with 
a  slight  indisposition,  but  that  she  was  now 
better ;  and  he  portrayed  in  glowing  colors  the 
4 


38  THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER 

agreeable  surprise  it  would  occasion.  The  fol- 
lowing evening  was  the  time  resolved  on  for  the 
execution  of  the  plan. 

Clarence,  who  was  fast  imbibing  his  mother's 
tastes,  knew  well  how  to  gratify  her,  and  had 
selected  with  care  the  most  beautiful  flowers  of 
the  season,  and  arranged  them  with  much  taste 
in  the  vases  of  her  boudoir.  One,  an  antique, 
which  stood  on  a  table,  in  which  were  usually 
found  some  of  her  favorite  authors,  he  had  filled 
with  wild  flowers  which  Ned  and  he  had  gath- 
ered that  morning.  Though  a  favorite  retreat 
of  his  mother's,  she  had  not  entered  it  for  more 
than  a  week.  This  evening  Clarence  mentioned 
his  flowers,  as  an  inducement  for  her  to  visit  it. 
Always  alive  to  these  little  delicate  attentions, 
she  very  readily  complied,  and,  charmed  with 
the  variety  of  the  vases,  she  proposed  their 
remaining  the  evening  together,  and  requested 
Clarence  to  read  some  passages  from  her  favorite 
author,  Fenelon.  With  this  request  he  cheer- 
fully complied ;  but  soon  his  mother's  attention 
was  arrested  by  the  tones  of  a  violoncello,  which 
commenced  one  of  their  national  airs,  and  with 
uncommon  effect,  from  the  very  fine  voice  by 
which  it  was  accompanied.  "  Clarence,  my 
dear,"  said  she,  "  who  can  this  be  ?  This  must  be 
a  device  of  yours ;  but  who  is  it  that  performs  so 


THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER.  39 

finely  his  part  on  the  occasion'? "  Concealment 
was  no  longer  necessary,  and  Clarence  told  the 
whole  story,  from  which  his  mother  learned  that 
the  poetic  fancy,  and  delicate  compliment,  origi- 
nated with  Neddy,  as  she  kindly  called  him. 

Lady  F.'s  sensibility  was  touched  by  the 
incident.  There  was  the  minalino;  with  this 
expression  of  gratitude,  a  delicacy  of  feeling 
which  she  had  not  expected,  and  the  modesty 
which  had  concealed  from  her,  till  this  time, 
talents  of  such  high  promise,  commanded  her 
admiration. 

Clarence,  who  was  immediately  sent  by  his 
mother  to  invite  Neddy  up  into  her  room,  soon 
returned,  accompanied  h$  -5ie  young  minstrel,  an 
appellation  by  which  he  is  thenceforward  more 
properly  designated.  He  entered  with  diffi- 
dence, and  with  an  embarrassment,  which,  when 
an  ignorant  lad,  he  had  never  felt,  and  which 
gave  him  additional  interest  in  the  eyes  of  his 
kind  friend.  She  received  him  with  great  be- 
nignity, snd  the  pleasure  she  expressed  in  his 
performance,  inspired  him  with  more  confidence 
in  himself.  She  recommended  to  him  several 
pieces  for  practice,  and  named  a  particular  time 
at  which  she  would  expect  him  to  come  and 
perform  them. 

He  lei";  Hs  kind  patroness  with  brighter  antici- 


40  THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER. 

pations  than  had  ever  before  dawned  upon  hia 
depressed  fortunes.  He  did  not  despise  the 
humble  occupation  which  had  raised  him  from 
pauperism  to  comfort  and  competence,  but  vis- 
ions of  higher  promise  now  flitted  across  his 
fancy,  and  he  ventured  to  hope,  that  diligence 
and  application  might  secure  to  him  success  in 
his  new  career,  equal  to  that  which  had  attended 
him  in  the  humble  employment  he  was  now 
about  to  relinquish. 

The  interval  till  his  next  appearance  at  Ains- 
ford  Manor,  was  spent  partly  in  his  old  occupa- 
tion, but  a  larger  portion  of  his  time  at  his 
violoncello.  His  ambition  was  to  gratify  his 
patroness — to  realize  her  highest  wishes.  He 
looked  forward  to  the  time  with  fearful  misgiv- 
ings ;  and  when  the  evening  arrived,  he  was 
almost  determined  to  offer  some  excuse  through 
the  medium  of  Clarence ;  but  at  last  the  better 
resolution  prevailed ;  and  at  the  appointed  houi 
Ned  might  have  been  seen  ringing  at  the  same 
door  from  which,  a  year  or  two  before,  he  had 
been  so  cruelly  repulsed  by  a  proud  menial. 
The  servant  by  whom  he  was  now  received, 
knew  too  well  the  wishes  of  his  mistress,  not  to 
treat  him  v/ith  the  courtesy  of  a  guest.  But 
when  he  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  presented  by  Clarence  to  his  mother,  he  was 


THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER.  41 

embarrassed  to  find  her  surrounded  by  several 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  whom  he  had  never  before 
seen.  She  perceived  his  embarrassment,  and 
with  that  ready  tact  which  good-breeding  always 
suggests,  soon  withdrew  his  attention  from  him- 
self to  surrounding  objects.  And  here  let  me 
suggest,  for  the  benefit  of  my  young  readers, 
that  an  unembarrassed,  easy  manner,  at  any  time, 
but  particularly  in  situations  new  to  us,  can  be 
acquired  only  by  a  forgetfulness  of  ourselves,  in 
the  effort  to  become  interested  in  the  objects 
around  us. 

The  kindness  with  which  the  guests  of  Lady 
F.  addressed  our  little  hero,  and  the  ease  and 
urbanity  of  their  manners,  made  him  soon  forget 
that  he  was  in  the  society  of  those  whose  birth 
and  rank  were  so  superior  to  his  own.  There 
was  an  indescribable  charm  thrown  over  every 
object  around  him.  The  persons,  manners,  and 
conversation  of  Lady  F.'s  guests,  were  those  of 
the  beings  which  his  fancy  had  created,  while 
the  realities  of  life,  with  him,  were  circumscribed 
by  the  walls  of  an  Irish  cabin.  Could  the  scene 
be  real,  or  was  it  still  the  idle  creation  of  his 
fancy?  The  conviction  of  its  reality  was  soon 
forced  upon  him,  by  his  patroness  addressing 
him  as  her  young  minstrel,  and  requesting  his 

performance  of  one  of  her  favorite  Irish  airs, 

4* 


42  THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER. 

adding,  "My  friends  prefer  the  simplicity  of  our 
own  Irish  melodies,  to  either  Italian  or  French 
operas ;  and  I  will  accompany  you  with  my  harp, 
in  one  of  those  airs  you  have  lately  been  prac- 
tising." With  extreme  diffidence,  but  with  a 
resolution  to  do  his  best,  he  took  his  instrument, 
and  succeeded  beyond  his  friend's  highest  ex- 
pectations. The  praise  was  kindly,  but  judi- 
ciously bestowed ;  not  calculated  to  excite  vanity, 
but  to  stimulate  to  renewed  exertion.  Three 
successive  efforts  were  such  as  to  convince  Lady 
F.  and  her  friends,  that  his  talent  was  of  no 
common  order,  and  that  their  efforts  to  develop 
it  would  be  rewarded  with  success.  And  when 
our  young  minstrel  retired,  it  was  most  cheer- 
fully resolved  to  give  him  every  advantage  which 
rank  and  wealth  could  command. 

A  few  years  found  our  hero  in  manhood,  the 
welcome  guest  in  the  circles  of  the  intelligent 
and  polite,  and  the  accomplished  performer  on 
various  instruments.  He  continued  always  to 
aim  at  excellence,  and  was  never  satisfied  with 
mediocrity.  He  is  now  surrounded  by  a  family 
of  whom  he  may  be  proud.  He  has  aimed  to 
make  them  virtuous  and  intelligent,  and  has  suc- 
ceeded. All  the  real  elegancies  and  refinements 
of  life  grace  his  domicil.  Ned,  or  shall  we  now 
call  him  Mr. ,  has  a  daughter,  who  inherits 


I 

THE    YOUNG    BASKET-MAKER.  43 

all  her  father's  genius.  This  talent  has  not  been 
cultivated  at  the  expense  of  others,  neither  is  it 
exerted  to  attract  the  public  eye.  It  has  often 
driven  care  from  the  brow  of  the  disconsolate, 
and  soothed  the  breast  heaving  with  sorrow ;  it 
has  made  their  own  little  circle  at  Cavan  the 
delightful  resort  of  those  who  make  a  true  ap- 
preciation of  worth,  and  love  to  see  genius  rise 
superior  to  the  obstacles  with  which  poverty  and 
obscurity  often  surround  it. 

Such  is  the  history  of  Neddy  of  the  Basket, 
a  name  which  is  still  often  given  him,  and  of 
which  he  is  not  ashamed.  His  kind  patroness  is 
still  living ;  and  I  have  seen  those  who  have  seen 
them  ail.  I  have  recorded  his  story,  in  the  hope 
that  my  young  readers  will  draw  from  it  an  im- 
portant moral.  Diligence  and  perseverance  will 
give  success  in  any  pursuit  to  which  our  atten- 
tion is  directed. 


44 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN 


BY    WILLIAM    L.    STO^E, 


"  He  took  the  child, 


And  bore  it  to  his  couch,  and  kissed  it ;  flung 
Himself  upon  his  knees,  and  sobbed." 

IiESStNG. 

"  Remember'st  thou  my  greyhound  true  ? 
O'er  holt,  and  hill,  there  never  flew — 
From  slip,  or  leash,  there  never  sprang— 
More  fleet  of  foot,  more  sure  of  fang." 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


I  love  a  dog.  As  Otway  says,  "  They  are 
honest  creatures,  and  will  ne'er  betray  their 
masters."  Byron,  too,  in  one.  of  the  closing 
conversations  of  his  at  once  splendid  and 
wretched  career,  has  echoed  the  sentiment. 
And  well  might  the  noble  bard  speak  a  word 
in  favor  of  the  race,  since,  in  the  gloom  and 
terrible  desolation  of  his  own  proud  spirit, 
during  his  last  illness,  his  favorite  dog  was  his 
chief  comfort;  his  most  attentive  and  sympa- 
thizing friend.  It  is  not,  however,  one  of  your 
ill-bred  and  ugly  "  curs  of  low  degree,"  which, 


THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN.         45 

like  a  groveling  politician,  snarls  and  snaps  at 
every  thing  coming  in  his  way,  that  wakes  my 
affection ;  but  a  noble  canine  fellow,  of  charac- 
ter and  spirit;  one  who  has  been  well  bred, 
knows  his  place,  and  possesses,  what  many  men 
do  not,  intelligence  and  self-respect.  Dogs 
there  are  of  such  quality,  who  are  entitled  to 
rank  above  the  grade  of  a  common  servant, 
since  many  are  the  instances  in  the  checkered 
course  of  human  life,  in  which  they  reach  the 
moral  dignity  of  companion  and  friend. 

Puss  is  a  treacherous  animal,  notwithstanding 
her  popularity  (if  a  tabby,  or  a  tortoise-shell) 
with  the  princesses  of  Persia,  and  the  dark-eyed 
beauties  of  Circassia.  There  is  no  trusting 
her.  Let  her  purr  and  fondle  ever  so  affection- 
ately one  moment,  the  next  may  find  her  spitting 
spitefully  in  your  face,  and  her  cruel  talons 
lodged  fast  in  your  cheek. 

But  not  so  with  Killdeer.  He  is  the  friend 
of  man,  and  his  fidelity  is  incorruptible.  His 
attachment  is  purely  personal,  and  enduring — 
uninfluenced  by  changes  of  time,  or  place,  or 
circumstance.  Independently  of  his  beauty,  he 
possesses  all  the  internal  qualities  that  concili- 
ate the  affections  of  man.  Studying  every  look 
and  motion  of  his  master,  though  evei  so  great  a 
tyrant,  to  do  his  pleasure — licking  fondly  the 


46  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

hand  upraised  to  strike  him — disarming  resent- 
ment by  submission,  and,  by  his  imploring  looks, 
changing  even  his  persecutor  into  a  protector. 
Courageous  and  formidable  to  his  enemies,  yet 
the  native  ferocity  of  his  disposition  is  all  kind- 
ness to  his  master,  to  whose  caprices  he  is  the 
most  forbearing,  and  to  whose  service  and  inter- 
est the  most  devoted — obeying  his  commands 
with  alacrity  and  ardor,  and  exerting  all  his  tal- 
ents and  energies  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  with- 
out grudging,  at  his  bidding. 

In  his  disposition  and  conduct,  moreover, 
lessons  in  the  moral  virtues  are  not  only  educed, 
but  are  often  enforced  by  striking  illustrations. 
He  is  strong  without  insolence ;  friendly  without 
selfishness  ;  beautiful  without  vanity ;  true  in  his 
affection ;  grateful  for  every  favor ;  repaying  all 
the  kindness  bestowed  upon  him;  generous  in 
his  disposition ;  too  honorable  to  do  a  mean 
action,  and  too  noble  to  betray ;  compassionate 
in  adversity ;  remembering  only  the  benefits  he 
has  received ;  harboring  no  resentments,  and 
forgetful  of  injuries — tnus  exemplifying,  as  it 
were,  the  principle  of  the  heathen  moralist,  by 
sculpturing  favors  upon  marble,  and  writing 
insults  in  the  sand. 

Is  it  then  wonderful,  •  that  generous  minds 
should  love  an  animal  of  such  noble  qualities? 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  47 

Nay,  is  it  not  rather  a  matter  of  surprise,  that 
a  creature  so  faithful,  true,  and  kind,  should  be 
so  frequently  and  greatly  abused  ?  In  the 
Eastern  world,  where  they  believe  Mahomet  to 
have  been  a  prophet,  and  where  the  ladies  love 
cats,  it  is  perhaps  no  cause  of  marvel.  But  I 
must  confess,  from  the  high  estimation  in  which 
I  hold  Killdeer,  I  have  never  been  able  to 
perceive  why  it  should  in  any  wise  excite  the 
ire  of  the  Franks  to  be  denounced  by  the  men 
of  Islam  as  "  Christian  Dogs ; "  and  it  vexes 
me  exceedingly  to  find,  even  in  civilized 
countries,  men — sour  and  pale-faced  fellows — 
without  a  spark  of  generous  feeling,  or  a  drop 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  their  bosoms 
— always  growling  at  dogs,  worse  than  the  dogs 
growl  themselves — and  ever  ready  to  repay 
their  affectionate  caresses,  their  zeal  and  in- 
dustry in  the  service  of  man,  by  kicks,  and 
other  demonstrations  of  cold  and  insensible 
barbarity. 

True,  indeed,  a  justification  of  these  brutali- 
ties, and  even  for  knocking  them  on  the  head, 
with  as  little  remorse  as  though  they  were  our 
enemies  instead  of  friends,  is  often  found,  or 
sought  to  be  found,  in  the  cry  of  "  mad  dog ; " 
but  if  the  truth  were  known,  it  is  believed  that, 
in  nine  cases  out   of  ten,   the   poor  animal  is 


48  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

the  victim  of  calumny.  He  becomes  maddened 
by  his  unfeeling  persecutors,  and  should  he 
chance  to  bite  any  body,  the  case  would  only 
give  additional  point  to  the  clever  satire  of 
Goldsmith  : — 

"  The  man  recovered  from  the  bite  ; 
The  dog  it  was  that  died." 

There  was  once  an  artist  in  Switzerland, 
who  was  called  the  Raphael  of  Cats ;  and  it 
was  said  to  Richard  Heber,  of  the  late  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  that  he  might,  with  equal  justice, 
be  called  the  Wilkie  of  Dogs.  Sir  Walter  was 
one  of  the  most  kind-hearted  and  benevolent, 
as  well  as  illustrious  of  men.  How  he  loved 
his  dogs  !  And  how  happily  and  effectively,  in 
arranging  the  machinery  of  his  beautiful  tales, 
has  he  introduced  them  among  the  dramatis 
personam  of  those  wonderful  creations  of  his 
genius  !  Hark  to  the  music  of  the  hounds  of 
Fitz  James,  in  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  ;  or  listen 
to  Lord  Ronald's  deer-hounds  in  the  haunted 
forest  of  Glenfinlas !  Then  there  are  the 
venerable  patriarchs,  Pepper  and  Mustard,  both 
claiming  our  regard ;  Hobbie  Elliott's  Killbuck, 
and  Old  Wolf,  of  Avenel  Castle ;  the  excellent 
and    simple-minded    Mr.    Oldbuck's    Juno,    by 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  49 

whom  he  was  now  and  then  deprived  of  his 
toast  and  butter ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  grey- 
hounds of  Cedric  the  Saxon,  or  of  Captain 
Clutterbuck's  shrewd  spaniel,  who  never  failed 
to  quiz  his  master,  when  making  a  bad  shot, 
and  missing  to  bring  down  the  bird.  These 
were  all  dogs  of  renown,  destined  to  live  in 
story  and  in  song  as  long  as  their  masters,  and 
no  doubt  as  deservedly. 

"When  the  noble  house  of  the  De  Medici 
were  midway  in  their  brilliant  career,  adding 
lustre  to  the  mitre  by  their  munificent  patronage 
of  learning  and  the  arts,  and  dignity  to  the 
papal  throne  by  their  acquisitions  of  power — 
rivalling  even  the  ancient  splendor  of  imperial 
Rome — dogs  of  blood  were  held  in  distinguished 
consideration.  History  informs  us  of  one  in 
particular,  who  sometimes  executed  the  duties 
of  a  butler  in  the  palace.  He  attended  one 
of  the  princes  at  the  banqueting  table,  changed 
the  plates,  and  brought  wine  to  his  munificent 
patron,  upon  the  salver,  without  spilling  a  drop 
from  the  glass  in  which  it  sparkled. 

At  the  court  of  Prussia's  great  warrior, 
Frederick,  likewise,  dogs  were  no  unimportant 
personages.  That  monarch  was  once  saved 
from  capture  by  the  Austrians,  by  the  wisdom 
and  sagacity  of  a  favorite  dog ;  and  ever 
5 


50  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

afterwards  he  treated  the  race  with  marked 
distinction  at  his  court.  His  palace  was  filled 
with  the  finest  dogs  he  could  procure ;  he  fed 
them  at  his  own  table,  and  from  his  own  hand ; 
and  during  his  hours  of  relaxation,  frequently 
preferred  their  society  to  that  of  his  courtiers. 
And  to  the  credit  of  the  quadrupeds  it  may  be 
noted,  that  the  biped  courtiers  were  usually 
more  fawning  and  sycophantic  than  their  canine 
rivals. 

But  as  with  men,  so  with  dogs — much 
depends  upon  their  training,  and  their  asso- 
ciations. If  the  latter  have  been  coarse  and 
vulgar,  the  dog  will  betray  his  rusticity  ;— with 
the  peasant,  he  becomes  a  peasant ; — and  if  he 
moves  in  a  more  elevated  and  genteel  circle, 
his  importance  is  increased  in  a  corresponding 
degree — he  assumes  the  airs  and  consequence 
of  a  gentleman,  or,  like  a  nobleman,  stands 
upon  his  dignity  like  a  De  Medicis.  One 
circumstance  must  at  this  point  be  recorded 
to  his  disadvantage.  If  his  master  is  a  miser, 
turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  wail  of  distress,  and 
barring  his  doors  against  the  poor,  the  dog 
will  spurn  the  beggar  also,  and  bark  him 
from  the  premises.  This  looks  hard-hearted 
and  unamiable;  but  an  extenuation  of  the 
fault,  if  not  an  excuse,  is  perhaps  to  be  found 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  51 

in  the  constant  and  unshaken  exercise  of  the 
paramount  virtue  of  fidelity.  Nor  is  a  dog 
bound  to  know  at  all  times  the  pecuniary 
circumstances  of  his  master. 

Buffon,  and  the  Encyclopedists,  allow  the 
canine  race  no  higher  mental  qualities  than 
mere  instinct.  But  I  must  insist  upon  some- 
thing beyond  this.  If  not  possessed  exactly 
of  reasoning  faculties,  dogs  are  certainly  sus- 
ceptible of  degrees  of  intellectual  improvement, 
bordering  upon  what  some  of  the  Occidental 
colleges  would  consider  a  liberal  education, 
and  disclosing  talents  far  beyond  the  common 
range  of  the  brute  creation.  They  have  been 
taught  to  dance,  as-  well  as  to  hunt — and  even 
a  Frenchman  cannot  move  in  the  mazes  of  the 
quadrille  or  the  cotillion,  without  understanding 
something  of  musical  numbers.  They  have 
been  taught  to  play  at  cards, — to  assist  their 
masters  in  tricks  of  legerdemain,  and  almost 
to  cast  figures  in  judicial  astrology ;  and  justice 
requires  me  to  add,  that  I  never  saw  a  dog 
engaged  as  an  assistant  conjurer,  who  did  not 
seem  entitled  to  more  respectful  consideration 
than  his  master. 

But  whether  they  are  able  to  read  the  stars, 
or  not,  there  is  at  least  one  example,  proving 
their    capacity    to    acquire    a    knowledge    of 


52  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

language,  if  not  of  letters.  Leibnitz  gives  an 
interesting  account  of  a  dog  who  was  taught 
to  speak,  and  the  facts  were  investigated  and 
sanctioned  by  the  French  Academy.  He  could 
call  intelligibly  for  tea,  coffee,  and  chocolate, 
for  his  master  and  mistress ;  and  this  branch 
of  his  education  was  pursued,  until  he  could 
articulate  upwards  of  thirty  words;  but  im- 
partial truth  constrains  me  to  admit,  that  he  was 
rather  a  truant  pupil,  and  more  fond  of  other 
pursuits  than  those  of  literature.  This  was  a 
Saxon  dog,  and  his  reluctance  to  prosecute 
his  studies  might  have  arisen  from  aversion  to 
the  hard  syllables  and  uncouth  sounds  of  the 
German  language.  The  liquid  melody  of  the 
Italian,  or  even  the  English,  might  have  pleased 
him  better. 

With  the  science  of  phrenology,  I  am  not 
aware  that  any  of  the  canine  race  have,  as 
yet,  become  acquainted ;  but,  in  physiognomy, 
they  are  remarkably  quick  and  discriminating. 
Lavater,  though  more  precise  and  scientific, 
never  equalled  an  intelligent  dog  in  the  readi- 
ness and  accuracy  with  which  he  will  read  the 
human  countenance.  The  most  sagacious  child 
could  not  so  quickly  observe  the  gathering 
frown  of  displeasure  upon  the  brow  of  the 
offended  parent,  as  it  would  be  noted  by  a  well 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  53 

instructed  dog ;  nor  would  it  sooner  discern  the 
indications  of  returning  good  will,  or  exhibit 
a  greater  pleasure  in  receiving  and  reciproca- 
ting the  playful  caress.  A  dog,  moreover,  will 
read  a  direction  or  command,  or  understand  the 
desire  of  his  master,  from  the  movement  of  a 
muscle,  or  the  glance  of  his  eye,  much  sooner 
than  the  same  silent  expressions  would  be 
comprehended  by  a  child,  or  even  by  an  adult 
of  ordinary  perceptions. 

It  has  been  asserted  by  some  physiologists, 
that  man  is  the  only  animal  that  laughs — the 
only  animal  possessing  the  power  of  arranging 
that  delightful  concentration  of  the  muscles 
of  the  face  which  forms  the  smile,  or  breaks 
forth  into  the  more  forcible  manifestation  of 
pleasure,  called  laughter.  I  deny  the  position. 
Dogs  are  fond  of  merriment,  and  possess  the 
power  of  the  inarticulate  expression  thereof, 
in  no  small  degree.  They  do  not  indeed 
break  out  into  the  obstreperous  horse-laugh, 
as  it  is  called,  being  dogs;  but  no  animal, 
biped  or  quadruped,  carnivorous  or  omnivorous, 
has  a  more  obvious  and  ready  faculty  of  mani- 
festing the  sensations  of  joy  and  gladness,  than 
a  dog.  His  countenance  beams  with  benevo- 
lence ;  it  is  often  rendered  agreeable,  and  even 
animated,  by  playful  smiles, — quiet,  it  is  true,— * 
5* 


54  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

but  full  of  meaning ;  and  there  is  sometimes  an 
archness,  a  sly  humor  withal,  disclosed  by  a 
.aughing  imp  sitting  in  one  corner  of  his  eye, 
showing  him  to  be  full  of  fun  and  mischief — 
wicked  dogs,  but  without  malice.  Not  that  I 
would  deny  the  existence,  now  and  then,  of  a 
very  sad  dog  also.  I  once  knew  a  dog  of  this 
character.  He  lost  his  good  name  by  telling 
a  lie.  I  forget  exactly  the  process ;  but  the 
fact  is  not  the  less  certain.  He  had  been 
placed  as  a  sentinel  in  charge  of  a  beef-steak, 
to  which  he  took  a  fancy,  and  in  an  unlucky 
moment  his  appetite  overcame  his  integrity. 
He  ate  up  the  steak,  and  actually  and  success- 
fully charged  the  breach  of  trust  upon  another 
dog,  his  innocent  companion.  Lying  is  classed 
with  the  meanest  of  vices,  as  the  young  reader 
may  well  suppose,  from  the  circumstance,  that 
even  a  dog  lost  his  character  by  telling  but  a 
single  one. 

I  have  likewise  recently  fallen  upon  another 
instance,  in  which  a  dog  has  ascertained  to  his 
sorrow,  that  "  evil  communications  corrupt  good 
manners."  Within  the  last  four  or  five  years, 
a  dog  was  confined  in  the  new  jail  of  Glasgow, 
in  the  company  of  his  master,  it  is  true, — but 
chiefly  on  account  of  his  own  peccadilloes. 
Being  a  pickpocket  himself,   the  master  taught 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  55 

the  dog  altogether  to  forget  the  nice  distinctions 
in  the  laws  of  meum  and  tuum;  and  the  dog 
became  a  greater  proficient  than  the  man. 
During  the  occasional  unlucky  mischances  in 
the  professional  career  of  the  master,  the  dog 
had  shared  his  imprisonment,  and  while  thus 
associating  with  rogues  and  vagabonds  of  every 
description  and  degree,  he  was  trained  to  great 
perfection  in  the  mysteries  of  the  trade.  His 
practice  was  to  steal  valuable  articles,  such  as 
watches  and  the  like,  and-  bring  them  to  his 
master — concealing  them  in  his  mouth.  But 
when  pursued,  or  he  had  any  reason  to  suspect 
he  was  observed,  the  door  would  in  no  wise 
recognize  his  master,  passing  and  disregarding 
him, — such  was  the  perfection  of  his  training, — 
as  though  an  utter  stranger.  So  numerous  were 
his  depredations,  and  so  constant  his  escapes, 
that  a  system  of  espionage  was,  from  necessity, 
established  over  him ;  and  when  at  length  he 
was  believed  to  have  stolen  a  watch,  he  was 
adroitly  and  quietly  pursued,  until  his  master 
was  seen  to  receive  from  his  trusty  agent  the 
property  that  had  been  feloniously  taken.  In 
the  issue,  the  master  was  sentenced  to  trans- 
portation, and  the  jury  rendered  a  supplemental 
verdict,  recommending  the  dog  either  to  the 
military  execution  of  being  shot,  or  the  more 


56  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

degrading  punishment  of  imprisonment  for  life. 
This  singular  case,  while  it  proves  much  in 
support  of  the  intellectual  capacity  of  dogs, 
also  teaches  an  important  lesson  to  legislators 
and  magistrates.  It  affords  a  strong  practical 
illustration  of  the  evils  of  the  present  system 
of  prison  discipline,  and  the  importance  of  sep- 
arating and  classifying  prisoners  before  trial, 
instead  of  confining  the  old  offender  and  the 
young,  the  hardened  felon  and  the  juvenile  de- 
linquent, indiscriminately  together. 

These  cases,  however,  are  exceptions  to  the 
general  character  of  dogs,  who,  as  we  have  seen, 
are  endowed  with  many  endearing  and  noble 
qualities — possessing  most  of  the  virtues,  and 
but  few  of  the  vices  of  man.  I  have  already 
ascribed  to  them  a  higher  order  of  mental 
resource,  than  is  usually  understood  by  the  term 
instinct.  If,  according  to  Smellie,  sensation 
implies  a  sentient  principle,  or  mind,  it  follows 
that  whatever  feels  has  mind.  This  proposition, 
however,  is  questionable  philosophy  in  its  full 
extent;  and  the  faculty  I  am  aiming  to  establish, 
might  perhaps  be  justly  denominated  an  innate 
moral  sense,  internal  teaching,  or  the  light  of 
nature.  On  the  score  of  feeling,  there  is  no 
animal  of  more  tender  compassion,  of  more 
exauisite  sensibility,  than  the  dog.     He  is  not  a 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  5t 

weeping  philosopher,  I  admit,  but  he  can  weep 
as  well  as  cry.  His  expressions  of  sorrow  are 
exceedingly  touching,  and  his  grief  is  often  too 
deep  to  be  passionate ;  he  becomes  subdued  and 
pensive,  and  vents  the  tear  at  once  "  so  limpid 
and  so  meek,"  as  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  the 
beholder.  So  far  as  feeling,  then,  is  concerned, 
the  dog  has  his  full  share ;  and  if  it  require  mind, 
or  something  approximating  very  nearly  to  it,  to 
plan  a  train  of  actions  for  the  accomplishment 
of  a  given  result,  or  to  employ  a  definite  means 
to  obtain  a  definite  end,  the  testimony  of  the 
existence  of  such  faculty  in  the  dog  is  most 
ample.  Not  to  dwell  upon  the  instances  in  the 
books,  where  the  celebrated  Edinburgh  dog  was 
taught  by  a  pastry  cook  to  go  to  his  master  for  a 
penny,  with  which  he  would  return  and  purchase 
a  pie  of  that  price,  for  the  gratification  of  his 
own  palate — a  traffic  that  was  kept  up  for  many 
months ;  or  the  dog  who  caught  the  idea  from 
the  mendicants,  of  daily  ringing  the  bell  of  a 
French  convent  for  his  dinner;  or  a  hundred 
others  that  might  be  noted, — one  or  two  cases, 
which  I  believe  have  never  been  in  print,  shall 
suffice  upon  this  point.     My  late  lamented  friend 

S ,  of  Hoboken,  had  a  terrier  named  Bounce, 

who  yet  lives  in  the  family.  Some  five  or  six 
years  ago,  Bounce  came  home  sadly  maimed  in 


58         THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

the  leg.  His  wound  was  dressed,  the  limb  bound 
up,  and  in  due  season  entirely  cured.  Several 
weeks  afterwards,  Bounce  returned  from  his 
afternoon's  ramble,  accompanied  by  a  friend  in 
distress,  another  dog,  who  had  also  been  cruelly 
hurt  in  the  leg.  Bounce  brought  his  unfortunate, 
companion  to  his  mistress,  who  had  acted  as  his 
own  surgeon ;  and  the  actions  of  both  animals 
rendered  it  perfectly  obvious,  that  the  lame  one 
had  presented  himself,  on  the  invitation  of  the 
other,  to  be  cured.  Of  course  poor  Tray's 
wounded  limb  was  taken  good  care  of*  An- 
other case,  more  striking,  though  not  more  curi- 
ous, is  the  following : — "A  gentleman  in  this 
city,  a  few  years  ago,  owned  a  remarkably  fine 
Newfoundland  dog,  of  large  size,  pleasing  coun- 
tenance, and  great  sagacity.  He  sometimes 
graced  the  boards  of  the  Park  theatre,  in  a  sea 
piece,  in  which  a  drowning  person  was  to  be 
rescued.  The  dog  seemed  to  think  himself  on 
his  own  island  and  in  his  own  element  again,  and 
played  to  the  life ;  nor  was  he  the  least  respect- 
able of  the  dramatis  personae,  as  it  may  well  be 
believed.     Boatswain  was  very  serviceable  to  the 


*  In  the  Boston  improved  edition  of  BufFon,  I  find  two 
similar  instances  mentioned,  one  happening  in  Leeds,  and 
the  other  in  France. 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  59 

family  of  his  owner  in  various  ways,  and  among 
other  errands,  he  was  frequently  sent  to  the  Ful- 
ton market,  with  a  basket,  and  directions  to  the 
butcher,  upon  a  paper,  what  to  send.  Nor  was 
he  ever  known  to  betray  his  trust.  On  one  occa- 
sion, as  he  was  leisurely  trotting  home  with  his 
basket,  containing  a  fine  sirloin  steak,  he  was 
rudely  beset  by  a  bevy  of  hungry  and  ill-man- 
nered whelps  and  curs,  who  attempted  a  high- 
way robbery  in  the  first  degree.  Boatswain  at 
first  looked  down  upon  them  with  scorn ;  but  at 
length  being  annoyed  by  their  conduct,  and 
rather  impatient,  he  determined  to  chastise  their 
insolence.  His  difficulty,  however,  was  how  to 
proceed  without  endangering  the  family  dinner. 
Should  he  set  the  basket  down  in  the  street,  one 
cur  might  seize  and  run  off  with  it,  while  he  was 
administering  a  salutary  discipline  to  another. 
But  before  he  reached  Nassau  street,  he  saw  a 
door  open.  A  bright  thought  flashed  upon  him. 
He  darted  into  the  house,  and  setting  the  basket 
down  in  the  hall,  sprang  back  into  the  street, 
and  gave  the  curs  who  had  disturbed  the 
equanimity  of  his  temper,  a  sound  thrashing. 
Having  thus  dispersed  them,  he  returned  into 
the  house,  took  up  his  basket,  and  jogged  home 
with  all  suitable  composure. 

I  have  just  spoken  of  the  humor  of  the  dog. 


60         THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

There  are  instances  in  which  he  has  shown  the 
broadest  indications  of  positive  waggery,  as  in 
the  case  of  Hughes,  the  English  comedian. 
Hughes  owned  a  very  intelligent  dog,  whose 
sagacity  was  remarkable.  It  happened  that  his 
master  had,  on  a  certain  occasion,  lent  one  of 
his  own  wigs  to  a  brother  of  the  sock  and  bus- 
kin.  Calling  upon  him  some  time  afterwards, 
with  his  usual  companion,  the  dog,  the  latter 
was  observed  to  eye  his  master's  friend  with 
great  attention ;  and  it  so  happened,  that  he  then 
had  the  borrowed  wig  upon  his  head.  When, 
however,  Mr.  Hughes  returned,  the  dog  remained 
behind ;  and  seizing  a  favorable  moment,  he 
sprang  upon  his  shoulders,  and  seizing  the  wig, 
made  off  with  it, — leaving  the  actor  with  a  naked 
poll, — to  the  infinite  amusement  of  the  company. 
In  music,  what  ear  so  readily  touched  with 
the  stirring  notes  of  the  winding  horn !  Nor 
are  they  indifferent  to  the  kindred  art  of  paint- 
ing. Buifon  relates  a  circumstance  of  a  dog's 
instantly  recognizing  the  picture  of  his  mistress, 
which  he  accidentally  saw  long  after  her  decease. 
All  his  early  impressions  and  remembrances 
returned,  and  he  caressed  the  picture  as  he 
would  have  done  his  mistress.  Another  instance 
has  just  come  to  my  knowledge  while  writing 
this  article.     Mr.  William  S.  Mount,  a  promising 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  61 

young  artist  of  this  city,  having  just  completed 
a  portrait  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carmichael,  at  Ja- 
maica, (L.  I.)  and  placed  it  in  the  sun  to  dry,  it 
caught  the  attention  of  the  worthy  clergyman's 
dog,  who  instantly  recognized  it,  barked,  fawned 
upon  it,  and  after  looking  most  fully  in  his  sup- 
posed master's  face,  wagged  his  tail,  and  lay 
down  by  the  frame,  with  the  strongest  indica- 
tions of  affectionate  regard. 

But,  after  all,  it  is  the  extraordinary  sagacity, 
the  untiring  perseverance,  the  strong  affection, 
and  the  daring  intrepidity  of  the  dog,  in  rescuing 
man  from  danger  and  death,  that  entitles  him  to 
our  highest  regard,  and  our  warmest  gratitude. 
In  all  ages  and  countries,  where  the  dog  has 
been  the  companion  of  man,  has  the  latter  been 
in  this  way  laid  under  the  heaviest  obligations  to 
the  former.  Whether  among  the  snows  and 
avalanches  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard — the  ice- 
bergs of  the  polar  region — or  the  stormy  seas  of 
Newfoundland — the  wilds  of  America,  or  the 
denser  population  of  Europe — he  is  the  same 
untiring  and  faithful  servant  and  friend  of  our 
race ;  and  a  volume  might  easily  be  filled  with 
examples  in  illustration  of  the  remark.  Who 
has  not  admired  the  character,  and  wept  over 
the  cruel  fate  of  Llewyllen's  hound,  whose 
memory  lives  in  the  immortal  verse  of  Camp- 
6 


62         THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

bell!  Who  has  not  rejoiced  in  the  sagacity, 
and  strong  sense  of  justice,  of  the  dog  of  Mon- 
targis — who,  his  master  having  been  murdered, 
discovered  the  courtier  who  had  committed  the 
deed,  by  seizing  upon  him  whenever  he  came  in 
his  way — until,  at  length,  suspicion  having  been 
excited  against  him,  the  kino-  of  France  ordered 
a  judicial  combat  between  the  dog  and  the  vil- 
lain, who  was  overcome  by  the  mastiff,  and  died 
confessing  his  crime !  And  what  American 
youth  but  has  pored  over  the  tale  of  the  wound- 
ed officer  in  the  American  revolution,  who  fell 
in  the  woods,  and  was  saved  by  the  sagacity  and 
perseverance,  under  every  discouragement,  of 
his  dog !  My  present  purpose,  however,  is  not 
to  quote  former  anecdotes,  but  to  add  a  new  one 
for  the  next  edition  of  Percy. 

Some  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  wrhen  the 
tide  of  emigration  had  just  commenced  flowing 
from  New  England  into  Ohio,  among  the  young 
and  enterprising  farmers  who  were  directing 
their  faces  westward — "  the  world  all  before 
them  where  to  choose," — was  a  man  by  the 
name  of  Stanley.  He  had  married  a  buxom 
spinster,  of  suitable  age  and  congenial  charac 
ter,  with  whom,  gathering  up  his  small  stock  of 
household  stuffs,  he  commenced  his  journey  to 
the  Eden  beyond  the  Alleghanies.      With  the 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  63 

exception  of  his  oxen  and  his  cart — his  wife, 
and  the  first  infant  pledge  of  their  aifection — 
and  one  other  friend,  who  shall  be  named 
presently — Frank  Stanley  carried  with  him, 
literally,  the  Yankee  inheritance,  and  nothing 
more — his  father's  blessing,  and  his  own 
wits.  But  Frank  and  his  wife  were  happy  in 
each  other ;  they  had  youth  and  health  on  their 
side ;  he  had  a  strong  arm  and  a  stout  heart,  and 
both  were  enterprising  and  industrious.  Many 
such  were  numbered  among  the  emigrants  from 
New  England  to  the  great  West,  before  whose 
sinewy  arms  the  forests  have  disappeared,  as  if 
by  magic — while  the  virgin  soil,  thus  opened  to 
the  sun,  has  yielded  its  fruits  more  luxuriant, 
and  rich,  and  precious,  than  the  golden  prod- 
ucts of  the  Hesperides.  Many,  too,  who  have 
thus  led  the  march  of  empire,  and  with  advan- 
tages of  no  greater  promise  than  those  of  Frank 
Stanley,  have  subsequently  risen  to  affluence — 
to  stations  of  rank  and  power ; — have  become 
Governors,  and  Senators,  and  Judges — dis- 
charging their  duties  with  integrity  and  intelli- 
gence, and  thus  affording  a  beautiful  commen- 
tary upon  the  genius  and  practical  operation 
of  our  political  system. 

Frank    pushed    forward  with  vigor    into  the 
wilds,  inflexible  in  his  purpose,  now  that  he  had 


04  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

torn  himself  and  family  from  kindred  and  the 
parental  home,  of  making  no  permanent  halt 
until  he  should  discover  a  location  exactly  to 
his  liking.  His  wife  had  all  possible  confidence 
in  his  judgment,  and  a  heart  of  equal  resolution 
with  his  own.  Having  staked  their  all,  there- 
fore, upon  the  undertaking,  the  distance  of  a 
few  miles,  or  even  leagues,  greater  or  less,  into 
the  wilderness,  would  make  but  little  ultimate 
difference  in  their  situation,  since  the  current 
of  emigration  was  already  rolling  onward  with 
a  depth  and  volume  forbidding  the  idea  of  a 
lengthened  solitary  residence  in  any  district 
east  of  the  Missouri.  He  had  heard,  moreover, 
of  those  vast  and  fertile  openings,  called 
prairies,  unencumbered  by  forests,  and  of 
course  susceptible,  with  but  little  labor,  of 
receiving  the  plough,  and  yielding  speedy 
returns. 

Often  did  he  stop  to  admire  the  picturesque 
views  among  the  luxuriant  valleys  of  the  Ohio, 
the  richness  of  which  was  attested  by  the 
enormous  growth  of  the  forest-trees,  towering 
to  the  skies,  and  the  rank  herbage  beneath, 
But  still  he  pursued  his  course  until  a  brighter 
light  broke  in  upon  the  mellow  and  grateful 
gloom  of  the  forest,  and  he  soon  found  himself 
upon   the   margin   of   one   of   those    immense 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  65 

plains  of  which  he  was  in  search,  spreading  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  like  a  sea  of 
verdure;  the  tall  and  luxuriant  grass  waving 
over  its  surface  in  the  breeze,  like  the  undu- 
lations of  the  ocean,  when  sinking  from  a 
tempest  into  a  calm.  The  hearts  of  both  beat 
high  with  expectation;  they  had  eyes  for  the 
picturesque,  and  the  materials  of  poetry  in  their 
souls,  although,  like  the  Yankee  with  his 
instrument,  they  did  not  know  exactly  how  to 
get  the  music  out.  Having  soon  emerged  from 
the  forest,  so  as  to  command  a  view  of  the 
scene  before  them,  both  were  for  a  long  time 
lost  in  astonishment.  They  were  standing  upon 
the  confines  of  a  noble  plain,  on  which  the  eye 
gazed  until  the  dim  verdant  outline  mingled 
with  the  blue  sky  in  the  distance  Sprinkled 
over  the  vast  expanse  were  numerous  spots 
of  timbered  lands,  standing  like  islands  in 
an  ocean  of  meadow,  some  circular,  some 
square,  and  others  again  triangular,  or  of 
various  irregular  forms — now  spreading  into 
extended  woodlands,  and  now  reduced  to  the 
size  of  a  copse,  or  forming  a  small  clump  of 
trees,  relieving  the  vision,  and  just  large  enough 
for  variety  and  beauty.  In  various  directions 
were  herds  of  wild  cattle,  grazing  on  the  plain, 
or  ruminating  here  and  there  under  the  shade 
6* 


66  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

of  the  wooded-islands,  or  the  points  of  the 
surrounding  forests,  jutting  out  upon  the  prairie 
like  small  peninsulas,  or  rather  like  the  irregular 
indentations  of  a  level  coast  of  the  sea.  It  was 
to  the  emigrants  a  glorious  sight — excelling  all 
the  descriptions  they  had  heard  in  anticipation, 
and  worth  a  journey,  even  from  the  "  land  of 
steady  habits,"  to  behold. 

Here,  then, — for  I  find  the  details  of  my  story 
already  call  for  abridgment, — did  our  worthy 
emigrants,  after  a  suitable  examination  of  the 
localities,  and  the  discovery  of  a  sweet  spring 
of  water,  which  gushed  from  a  projecting  cliff 
at  no  great  distance,  determine  to  cast  their  lot, 
for  better  or  for  worse,  as  they  had  previously 
taken  each  other  in  the  presence  of  the  parson. 
Their  humble  domicil — whi~h,  by  the  by,  has 
long  since  given  place  to  a  stately  mansion, 
standing  in  a  grove  near  the  church,  the  spire 
of  which  is  clearly  seen  in  the  picture — their 
humble  domicil,  as  I  have  just  said,  was  erected 
upon  one  of  the  most  delightful  spots  in  crea- 
tion. It  stood  upon  a  knoll  in  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  from  which  the  occupants  could  at  all 
times  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  an  almost 
boundless  prospect.  The  prairie,  of  which  the 
reader  has  already  been  presented  with  a  bird's- 
eye  view,  was  apparently  so  level,  as  to  be  mis- 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  67 

taken  for  a  perfect  plain ;  but  yet  rolling  into 
swells  and  gentle  declinations,  sufficient  to  carry 
the  water  from  the  surface,  with  a  slight,  though 
almost  imperceptible,  slope  to  the  south.  Du- 
ring the  whole  year,  excepting  a  very  brief  winter, 
it  was  covered  with  grass  of  the  rankest  growth, 
and  the  dark-green  isolated  woodlands,  already 
mentioned,  more  regularly  planted,  as  a  stranger 
would  at  first  imagine,  than  though  they  had 
sprung  up  by  chance,  and  yet  far  more  beautiful 
in  their  irregularity,  than  they  would  have  been 
had  their  disposition  amidst  the  ocean  of  verdure 
been  designated  by  art ;  the  landscape  was  alto- 
gether one  of  surpassing  loveliness ; — a  lake  and 
mountain  would  have  made  it  glorious. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  proper  stage  of 
our  story,  to  introduce  another  member  of  Mr. 
Stanley's  household — a  friend  of  whose  existence 
the  reader  has  already  received  a  slight  intima- 
tion. This  was  a  large,  shaggy  mastiff,  as  gen- 
erous in  his  disposition  as  he  was  strong,  resolute, 
and  beautiful.  The  mastiff  is  a  noble  variety  of 
the  canine  race,  and  was  in  high  repute  among 
the  Romans,  for  magnanimity,  courage,  and 
strength.  They  are  amiable,  always  trust-wor- 
thy, and  exceedingly  vigilant  and  faithful  when 
left  in  charge.  Rover — for  that  was  the  name  of 
Frank  Stanley's  mastiff — was  the  finest  of  his 


68  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

species.  His  watchfulness  was  untiring,  and  no 
bribe  could  induce  him  to  betray.  He  was  not 
savage,  and  yet  was  as  courageous  as  the  bull- 
dogs of  Great  Britain,  at  the  time  of  the  Roman 
conquest ;  but  never  showing  his  power,  nor  call- 
ing it  into  exertion  unless  provoked  by  injuries. 
Such  was  the  dog  Rover,  who  has  become  the 
hero  of  my  tale.  He  was  playful,  and  when  his 
services  were  not  required  in  the  discharge  of 
higher  duties,  he  would  bound  off  to  cultivate 
an  acquaintance  with  a  d  stant  herd  of  buffaloes, 
or  sport  with  the  birds  among  the  tangled  grass 
of  the  prairie.  Thus,  often  might  Rover  have 
been  seen — 

"  His  nose  in  air  erect ;  from  ridge  to  ridge 
Panting  he  bounds ;  his  quartered  ground  divides 
In  equal  intervals,  nor  careless  leaves 
One  inch  untried." 

In  many  parts  of  Europe,  especially  in  Scot- 
land, and  on  the  continent,  it  is  customary  for 
the  females  of  the  small  farmers  to  labor  with 
the  men  in  the  fields.  With  the  Germans  in  this 
country,  the  same  usage  prevails;  and,  also,  in 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  among  the  pioneers  of 
our  new  settlements.  The  reader  will  not  be 
surprised,  therefore, — more  especially,  since  the 
fact  is  indicated  in  the  picture  I  am  illustrating, 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  69 

— to  learn  that,  in  the  early  residence  of  Frank 
Stanley  upon  his  ample,  though,  at  the  same 
time,  secluded  domain,  he  was  often  assisted  and 
cheered  in  his  field-labors  by  his  wife ;  who  was 
indeed  a  notable  woman,  as  his  subsequent 
career  of  thrift  has  clearly  shown.  And  here,  I 
must  beg  leave  to  digress  long  enough  to  remark, 
that,  in  any  station  in  life,  man  is  far  more  in- 
debted for  his  prosperity  and  his  advancement, 
and  for  the  character  and  respectability  of  his 
children  after  him,  to  the  tact  and  the  talent,  the 
economy  and  management  of  his  wife,  than  is 
generally  supposed,  or  often  admitted.  Not, 
however,  such  wives,  as,  it  may  be  feared,  will 
issue  from  but  too  many  of  the  female  "  semina- 
ries" of  the  present  day;  in  which,  notwith- 
standing their  lofty  pretensions,  more  idle  non- 
sense is  taught  about  the  imaginary  rights  of 
women,  than  useful  instruction  as  to  positive 
duties. 

But  to  return :  Frank  Stanley's  wife  (Judge 
Stanley's  wife,  of  Indiana,  we  presume,  would 
now  do  no  such  thing — and  she  need  not)  was 
often  a  sharer  of  her  husband's  toils  in  the  field ; 
and  at  such  times,  little  Frank  was  left  under 
the  watchful  guardianship  of  Rover — sometimes 
in  the  cottage,  and  at  others,  beneath  the  more 
grateful  umbrage  of  the  trees  skirting  the  fields 


70         THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

where  they  were  at  work.  It  was  a  sweet  and 
promising  child,  and  to  do  him  justice,  much 
handsomer  than  the  picture.  "  The  light  danced 
in  its  eyes  like  boys  at  a  festival ; "  and  Rover 
loved  it  almost  as  well  as  did  its  parents.  On 
one  of  the  occasions  referred  to,  during  a 
drought  of  several  weeks,  when  the  dried  wood 
and  fallen  leaves  had  become  highly  combustible, 
the  parents  repaired  to  their  field  labors  as  usual, 
leaving  their  darling,  as  they  had  often  done  be- 
fore, by  the  side  of  a  rock,  overshadowed  by  a 
coppice  of  sycamores.  It  was  a  favorite  spot  of 
the  laborers,  to  which  they  often  retired  to  eat 
their  frugal  mid-day  repast,  and  refresh  them- 
selves during  the  fervid  hours  of  the  merid- 
ian sun. 

A  party  of  hunters  were  in  the  neighborhood ; 
and  the  occasional  discharge  of  a  rifle  or  a  fowl- 
ing-piece, being  no  unusual  sound,  excited  neither 
anxiety  nor  surprise.  They  wrould  not  themselves 
be  far  distant ;  and  little  Frank,  placed  on  a  rustic 
couch,  was  deemed  perfectly  safe  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  in  the  charge  of  the  lynx-eyed  and  faithful 
Rover.  In  the  prosecution  of  their  labors,  how- 
ever, or  more  probably  in  pursuit  of  some  irregu- 
lar object  not  previously  thought  of,  the  parents 
were  unconsciously  drawn  a  considerable  dis- 
tance further  from  their  little  charge,  than  they 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN.  71 

had  supposed.  And  their  attention  was  first 
called  to  the  fact,  by  a  sound  in  the  air  like  the 
roar  of  distant  waters,  accompanied  by  crack- 
ling noises,  of  no  uncertain  character  to  those 
accustomed  to  the  clearing  of  woodlands.  They 
looked,  and  were  appalled  at  beholding  the  smoke 
of  a  fire  which  had  suddenly  broken  out  in  the 
woods,  probably  occasioned  by  the  discharge  of 
a  musket  by  one  of  the  hunters,  and  which,  from 
the  dark,  cloudy  wreaths  now  rolling  upwards, 
had  even  then  well  nigh  encircled  the  little 
copse  in  which  their  treasure,  as  sweet  as  inno- 
cent, as  innocent  as  gay,  as  gay  as  happy,  was 
lying,  altogether  unconscious  of  the  approaching 
danger.  The  wind  had  freshened,  and  the  fire 
was  already  raging  fiercely,  sending  up  darkened 
volumes  of  smoke,  and  spreading  rapidly,  from 
one  combustible  substance  to  another.  The 
drought  had  well  prepared  the  materials  for  such 
a  catastrophe,  and  the  fire  was  swiftly  climbing 
the  scathed  trunks  of  trees,  encircling  them  with 
spiral  wreaths  of  flame,  the  continuing  and 
louder  roar  of  which  told  how  vehemently  it  was 
raging. 

.  Affrighted,  and  indeed  half  frantic,  the  parents 
ran  with  all  their  might  to  the  rescue  of  the 
child ;  but  the  tall  grass  of  the  prairie  sadly 
retarded   their   progress,    while    every    instant 


72         THE  FAITHFUL  GUARDIAN. 

seemed  an  age,  and  every  moment  added  to 
the  extent  and  the  intensity  of  the  fire,  now 
consuming  every  thing  excepting  the  green  tim- 
ber in  its  progress,  and  sending  upwards,  with 
the  rolling  volumes  of  smoke,  showers  of  burn 
ing  leaves,  which,  as  they  fell,  were  kindling 
hundreds  of  lesser  fires  every  moment,  to  unite 
and  thus  increase  with  tenfold  rapidity  the  con- 
flagration. The  parents  rushed  onward;  but 
their  very  anxiety,  added  to  the  difficulty  already 
noted,  served  but  to  impede  their  steps,  while, 
with  every  breath  they  drew,  the  spectacle  be- 
came more  awful,  and  its  fatality  more  certain. 
Fresh  flames  were  lighted  up  by  every  falling 
spark.  Indeed,  such  pillars  of  fire,  and  clouds 
of  vapor,  were  ascending  to  the  darkened  skies, 
and  the  little  peninsular  coppice  was  now  so 
nearly  overrun  with  the  destructive  element,  yet 
sweeping  onwards,  and  running  literally  like 
wild-fire,  that  all  hope  of  saving  the  child  was 
nearly  extinct. 

A  dreadful  death  seemed  its  inevitable  fate, 
before  either  of  them  could  reach  the  spot. 
Breathless,  however,  they  pressed  forward,  while 
their  ears  were  yet  filled  with  the  roar  of  the 
flames,  and  the  crackling  of  the  burning  limbs 
and  trunks  of  the  trees,  mingled,  as  their  bitter 
fancy  taught  them  to  believe,  with  others,  and 


THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN,  73 

yet,  to  them,  more  painful  sounds.  But  in  this 
they  were  mistaken ;  for  the  cries  which  they 
supposed  piercing  their  ears,  could  not  have 
been  distinguished  amid  the  noise  of  the  terrible 
combustion  now  in  progress,  resembling  the 
rushing  of  a  mighty  wind.  The  hearts  of  both 
sunk  within  them,  and  the  mother  fell,  from 
terror  and  exhaustion,  before  reaching  the  mar- 
gin of  the  prairie.  At  this  moment  the  faithful 
sentinel  who  had  been  left  with  the  child,  raised 
a  piercing  howl  of  distress,  the  last  sound  that 
reached  the  ear  of  the  mother  until  some  time 
afterwards ;  and  which  in  her  agony  she  mistook 
for  the  cries  of  her  child,  now,  as  she  supposed, 
perishing  in  the  flames — so  natural  is  it  for  a 
mind  highly  excited  to  despair  most  of  what  it 
most  desires. 

More  strong  of  nerve  and  firm  of  foot,  the 
unhappy  father  reached  the  spot ;  but,  alas !  it 
was  now  environed  by  a  chain  of  fire.  Repeat- 
ed and  desperate  were  his  attempts  to  penetrate 
the  burning  cordon ;  but  in  each  successive  effort 
was  he  repulsed  and  driven  back  by  the  scorch- 
ing tempest,  and  so  blinded  by  the  heat  and 
smoke,  the  flames  having  at  times  literally  en- 
circled his  person,  that  he  could  no  longer  dis- 
tinguish the  place,  if  any  there  were,  through 
which,  under  other  circumstances,  he  might 
7 


74  THE    FAITHFUL    GUARDIAN. 

possibly  be  able  to  force  an  entrance,  and  per- 
chance yet  rescue  his  child.  He  was  on  the 
point,  however,  of  making  another  desperate 
plunge  into  the  blazing  furnace,  with  a  determi- 
nation to  succeed  or  perish  in  the  attempt,  when 
his  attention  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  cry  of 
the  child,  as  though  close  by  the  spot  on  which 
he  stood;  and  in  the  next  instant  the  faithful 
guardian  emerged  from  the  flames  and  smoke, 
dragging  the  little  one  by  its  clothes,  compara- 
tively unharmed.  Its  rustic  garments  were  sadly 
disarranged,  and  poor  Rover  had  endured  a 
severe  scorching  of  his  shagged  coat;  but  he 
cared  not  for  that,  and  seemed  as  conscious  of 
his  achievement,  and  as  much  rejoiced  at  the 
rescue,  and  the  finding  of  his  master,  as  the 
parents  were  on  recovering  their  beloved  from 
the  flames,  and  folding  it  once  more  to  their 
bosoms. 

And  now,  my  young  friend,  if  the  late  eccen- 
tric and  celebrated  Lord  Dudley  and  Ward  has 
had  the  most  costly  and  singular  statue  of  mod- 
ern times  erected  to  the  memory  of  his  dog — 
every  color  of  which  is  imitated  in  finely-pol- 
ished mosaic,  while  the  eyes  are  of  rare  and 
valuable  gems,  and  the  pedestal  enriched  with 
gold  and  precious  stones — what  memorial  should 
be  erected  to  the  memory  of  Rover  ! 


4  5 


MENTAL    COMMUNION, 


SY   MRS.    HENRY    ROLLS. 


"  My  spirit  will  often  be  with  you  on  Sycamore  terrace  in  a  fin© 
evening." 

A  Letter  from  a  Friend, 


And  will  thy  kindred  spirit  join 
The  social  walk  at  tranquil  eve, 

When  zephyr  scarcely  ians  the  vine, 
And  roses  fragrant  garlands  weave  ? — 

When  soft  the  pearly  dews  descend, 
All  nature  hushed — the  air  all  balm? 

Yes  ! — let  thy  spirit  come,  my  friend  ! 
And  share  with  us  the  hour  of  calm ! 

And  let  us  dwell  upon  those  themes 
That  to  celestial  realms  belong ; 

Such  as  glow  in  the  poet's  dreams, 
When  genuine  fire  inspires  his  song. 

If,  whilst  inclosed  in  mortal  clay, 
Such  pure  communion  be  assigned,,, 


76  MENTAL    COMMUNION. 

Say,  will  the  boundless  realms  of  day 
Restrain  the  blest  immortal  mind  ? 

The  grave  has  closed  o'er  those  we  love, 
Yet  in  our  hearts  still  love  remains; 

It  rises  to  their  home  above, 
And  cold  forgetfulness  disdains. 

And  when  refined  from  earthly  chains, 
Say,  will  not  love  still  brighter  burn  1 

Then,  if  no  unknown  power  restrains. 
May  not  the  spirit  back  return? 

Hast  not  thou  felt  thy  bosom  swell 

With  thoughts  far  higher  than  their  ownf 

As  though  some  blissful  influence  fell, 
And  thy  rapt  spirit  thence  had  flown  1 

Why,  at  such  holy,  solemn  hour, 

When  body  scarce  the  soul  confined, 

Might  not  departed  friends  have  power 
To  prompt  such  risings  of  the  mind  ? 

Hail,  holy,  awful,  cheering  thought, 
Pure  cleanser  of  life's  tainted  springs ! 

Could  he  by  earthly  toys  be  caught, 

Who  deemed  around  celestial  wings? — 


MENTAL    COMMUNION.  77 

Who  felt  that  pure  immortal  power 

Was  lent  his  spirit  to  sustain ; 
To  guard  him  in  temptation's  hour, 

And  back  the  wandering  heart  regain  ? 

Aldwincle  Rectory. 

7  * 


78 


ELSIE  GREY; 


OR 


THE  YOUNG  COTTAGER. 

Elsie  Grey  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the 
poorest  class  of  American  farmers.  Her  father, 
unable  to  purchase  land  for  himself,  cultivated 
the  farm  of  a  rich  widow  lady  in  his  native  vil- 
lage of  Hampden,  and  received,  as  a  remunera- 
tion for  his  toil,  a  third  part  of  the  profits  arising 
from  the  sale  of  the  produce.  The  hard  and 
stony  soil  which  he  tilled  afforded  a  harvest  far 
from  proportionate  to  the  labor  which  was  lav- 
ished upon  it ;  and  it  was  only  by  the  most  unre- 
mitting industry,  that  he  was  enabled  to  provide 
for  his  wife  and  three  little  ones.  Yet,  had 
Edward  Grey  possessed  that  great  essential  of 
nappiness,  a  contented  spirit,  he  might  have 
found  much,  even  in  his  own  humble  dwelling, 
to  mitigate  the  evils  of  his  lot.  His  children 
were  always  clean  and  tidy,  his  cottage  was  as 
neat  as  female  ingenuity  could  make  it,  and  his 
wife  was  a  pattern  of  frugality   and    industry. 


ELSIE    GREY.  79 

But  Edward  was  a  dissatisfied  man ;  and  though 
his  discontent  was  confined  to  his  own  bosom,  or 
shared  only  with  his  meek  wife,  yet  the  fire  was 
but  smouldering  within  him,  soon  to  burst  forth 
with  consuming  violence. 

Elsie,  the  eldest  of  his  children,  was  about 
eleven  years  of  age,  when  a  circumstance  occur- 
red, apparently  trivial  in  itself,  but  of  sufficient 
importance,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  to  decide 
the  fate  of  her  whole  family.  This  was  the 
establishment  of  a  new  tavern  on  the  road 
through  which  her  father  was  accustomed  to 
pass  in  his  way  to  market.  Though  no  lover . 
of  strong  drink,  Edward  Grey  had  unhappily  a 
great  fondness  for  argument ;  and  the  well-filled 
bar-room  of  the  new  inn  afforded  equal  attrac- 
tions to  the  admirers  of  warm  debate  and  hot 
punch.  Mr.  Tompkins,  the  new  tavern-keeper, 
was  a  disciple  of  the  modern  school  of  infidelity. 
The  words  liberty,  equality,  community  of  inter- 
ests, agrarian  law,  &c,  were  forever  in  his 
mouth ;  and  the  subtlety  with  which  he  de- 
fended his  principles  gave  him  a  great  advan- 
tage over  the  unlettered  farmers,  who  listened 
all  agape  to  these  astounding  novelties.  Edward 
Grey's  imbittered  feelings  rendered  him  but 
too  easy  a  convert  to  these  pernicious  doctrines. 
Night  after  night  he  was  to  be  found  seated 


80  ELSIE    GREY. 

beside  the  stove,  in  the  bar-room  of  "  Agrarian 
Hall,"  drinking  in  deep  draughts  of  infidelity 
and  brandy,  until  gradually  every  trace  of  his 
former  self  disappeared  before  the  influence  of 
skepticism  and  intemperance. 

Mournfully  did  his  unhappy  wife  watch  his 
slow  but  certain  progress  towards  ruin.  Ear- 
nestly and  faithfully  did  she  expostulate  with  him; 
but,  alas !  the  heart  which  had  hardened  itself 
against  its  Maker,  was  not  to  be  softened  by  the 
voice  of  affection.  He  became  stern  and  severe 
in  his  family — neglectful  of  his  duty  towards  his 
employers ;  and  in  less  than  a  year  after  he 
became  a  proselyte  to  the  new  creed,  it  was 
scarcely  possible  to  recognize  the  active,  indus- 
trious Edward  Grey,  in  the  indolent,  riotous 
disputant  of  the  village  tavern.  Mrs.  Morton, 
the  lady  upon  whose  estate  he  lived,  was  not 
long  in  /hearing  of  this  change.  A  bigoted 
sectarian,  as  well  as  a  conscientious  Christian, 
she  hesitated  not  to  declare,  that,  unless  he 
recanted  his  infidel  opinions,  she  would  no 
longer  afford  him  employment.  This  was  add- 
ing fuel  to  the  flame.  He  had  already  per- 
suaded himself  into  the  belief  that  his  poverty 
was  a  grievance,  which  he  ought  to  avenge  upon 
those  who  were  more  favored  by  fortune ;  and 
he  now  triumphed  in  the  thought  of  being  per- 


ELSIE    GREY.  81 

secuted  for  his  "free  inquiries."  His  pride  and 
vain-glory,  at  the  idea  of  being  a  martyr  to  his 
principles,  made  him  quite  regardless  of  those 
whom  he  compelled  to  share  his  martyrdom; 
ana  when  Mrs.  Morton  actually  put  her  threat 
in  execution — when  he  was  literally  turned  out 
of  doors  with  his  wife  and  children — he  felt  far 
less  grief  for  the  sufferings  of  his  family,  than 
pride  for  having  thus  signalized  his  steadfastness 
in  infidelity. 

The  situation  of  his  family  was  indeed 
deplorable.  Anxiety,  and  the  necessity  of  two- 
fold labor,  had  completely  destroyed  the  health 
of  Mrs.  Grey,  and  she  now  found  herself  and 
little  ones  thrown,  upon  the  world,  without  any 
apparent  means  of  subsistence.  A  miserable 
hovel,  which  had  been  so  long  untenanted,  that 
the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven  had  access  to  it 
from  all  quarters,  became  their  abode ;  and  here 
Elsie  received  her  hardest  lessons  in  worldly 
wisdom.  From  her  earliest  infancy,  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  privation,  but  she  was  now 
to  feel  absolute  want.  Every  morsel  of  bread 
was  eaten  as  if  they  knew  not  where  to  look  for 
the  next  meal,  and  many  a  time  did  the  poor 
child  conceal  her  scanty  portion,  that  she  might 
give  it  to  her  little  brother  and  sister,  who, 
being    younger   and  feebler,  were  less   able  to 


32  ELSIE    GREY 

endure  hunger  than  herself.  Her  father,  tor 
mented  by  remorse,  with  that  moral  cowardice 
which  is  so  much  more  frequently  found  in  men 
than  in  the  weaker  sex,  feared  to  face  the  evil 
which  he  had  brought  upon  himself,  and  there 
fore  avoided,  as  much  as  possible,  his  desolate 
home,  while  her  mother  was  gradually  sinking 
under  that  fatal  disease,  consumption. 

Had  Elsie  been  the  child  of  wealthy  parents, 
her  extreme  personal  beauty  would  probably 
have  made  her  a  drawing-room  pet,  and  perhaps 
have  unfitted  her  for  a  more  useful  destiny. 
But  her  parents,  too  poor  to  value  any  but  the 
useful  gifts  of  nature,  thought  not  of  the  bright 
black  eyes  and  rosebud  mouth  of  the  little 
creature,  whose  tiny  hands  had  been  always 
employed  in  necessary,  and  sometimes  severe, 
labor.  The  children  of  the  poor  often  display 
a  strength  of  character,  and  a  precocity  of 
intellect,  rarely  to  be  found  among  the  hot-bed 
plants  of  prosperity.  They  seem,  indeed,  as  if 
they  advanced  at  once  from  infancy  to  ado- 
lescence.    The  sDorts  and  frolics  of  childhood 

1 

do  not  belong  to  those  who  have  been  made 
prematurely  wise  by  poverty.  Elsie  Grey  pos- 
sessed a  degree  of  foresight  and  prudence  far 
beyond  her  years.  The  circumstances  of  her 
family  had  thrown  so  much  care  and  responsi- 


ELSIE    GREY.  83 

bility  upon  her,  that,  even  when  a  child  in  years3 
she  had  become  a  woman  in  feeling. 

Notwithstanding  the  exertions  of  Elsie  and 
her  mother,  affairs  gradually  grew  worse  with 
them.  Her  father,  believing  that  he  could 
more  easily  obtain  a  living  in  a  great  city, 
removed  to  New  York ;  but  his  evil  genius,  the 
tavern-keeper,  accompanied  him,  and  Elsie  soon 
found,  that,  poor  as  they  had  been  in  the 
country,  they  were  far  more  destitute  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowded  city.  The  kind  neighbors 
who  had  pitied  and  relieved  their  most  pressing 
necessities,  were  no  longer  near  them.  They 
were  shut  up  in  a  close  room,  in  one  of  those 
squalid  haunts  of  misery  and  vice,  which  are 
ever  to  be  found  in  large  towns,  where  the  very 
air  and  light  of  heaven  can  scarcely  be  enjoyed 
unbought.  Mrs.  Grey's  health  gradually  de- 
clined. She  became  at  last  too  ill  to  leave  her 
room;  and  her  husband,  reckless  alike  of  wife 
or  children,  spent  all  his  time  in  the  gambling- 
cellar  of  his  friend  the  tavern-keeper.  But 
Elsie's  courage  failed  not.  She  nursed  her 
mother,  watched  over  her  brother  and  sister, 
and  by  her  kind  manners  so  won  upon  the 
hearts  of  those  who  occupied  the  other  apart- 
ments in  the  house,  that  she  soon  found  herseli 
in  the  midst  of   friends.     A  washer-woman  in 


34  ELSIE    GREY. 

the  neighborhood  was  prevailed  upon  to  take 
Elsie  as  an  assistant;  and  the  neatness  with 
which  she  performed  her  tasks  soon  insured  her 
constant  employment.  When  her  mother  be- 
came too  ill  to  be  left  alone  with  the  children, 
Elsie  took  her  work  home ;  and  it  was  entirely 
owing  to  the  constant  exertions  of  the  little 
girl,  that  the  whole  family  were  preserved  from 
starvation.  Extreme  poverty  almost  always 
hardens  the  heart.  They  whose  whole  life  has 
been  spent  in  a  perpetual  struggle  against  mere 
physical  misery,  naturally  become  selfish.  But 
the  industry  and  good  humor  of  Elsie  Grey 
interested  even  the  poorest  of  her  neighbors. 
She  always  found  them  ready  to  do  her  a 
kindness,  if  it  lay  within  their  power ;  and  her 
cheerful  spirit  never  dreamed  of  repining  at  the 
hardships  to  which  she  was  subjected. 

Their  greatest  misfortunes,  however,  were  yet 
to  come.  Though  Edward  Grey  had  gradually 
sunk  into  the  lowest  state  of  degradation,  he 
had  as  yet  committed  no  crime  which  rendered 
him  amenable  to  the  law.  But  no  man  can  say 
to  the  tide  of  evil  principle,  "  Thus  far  shalt 
thou  go,  and  no  farther."  The  system  of  petty 
gambling,  in  which  he  indulged,  had  entirely 
destroyed  his  former  just  perceptions  of  right 
and  wrong,  and  he  was    therefore   easily  per- 


ELSIE    GREY. 


Shaded  into  an  act  of  guilt.  It  happened  that 
one  of  the  richest  merchants  then  in  New  York, 
was  named  Edward  Gray.  This  similarity  of 
name,  in  persons  so  dissimilar  in  fortune,  was 
often  made  the  subject  of  conversation  between 
Edward  and  his  pernicious  adviser,  Tompkins. 
"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  would  Tompkins  often 
say  to  him,  "  there  is  but  a  single  letter  to 
choose,  between  the  rich  Edward  Gray,  and  the 
poor  Edward  Grey."  "  I  wish  that  were  indeed 
all  the  difference,"  was  Edward's  frequent  reply; 
and  Tompkins  would  invariably  dismiss  the 
subject  with  a  vague  hint,  or  an  obscure  sug- 
gestion, which  sunk  deep  in  the  mind  of  the 
infatuated  man. 

At  length,  Tompkins  proposed  that  Grey 
should  sign  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars,  for 
which  he  undertook  to  procure  the  money. 
The  idea  of  forgery  was  at  first  startling ;  but 
the  insidious  persuasions  of  his  evil  counsellor 
soon  induced  him  to  believe  that  the  signing 
of  a  name,  which  was  in  fact  his  own,  could 
never  be  construed  into  an  act  of  criminality. 
The  first  thing  necessary,  was  to  obtain  the 
signature  of  the  merchant,  in  order  that  it  might 
be  accurately  copied.  This,  though  a  task  of 
some  difficulty,  was  finally  accomplished ;  and 
Edward  set  himself  to  the  work  of  copying  it 
3 


86  ELSIE    GREY. 

until  he  should  be  able  to  produce  a  facsimile 
of  the  somewhat  peculiar  hand-writing  of  his 
wealthy  namesake.  After  a  degree  of  patience 
and  perseverance  worthy  of  a  better  purpose, 
he  succeeded.  A  check,  filled  up  and  signed 
by  the  spurious  Edward  Grey,  was  presented  at 
the  bank  where  the  merchant  kept  his  account, 
and,  after  a  slight  inspection,  immediately  paid. 
The  money  was  divided  between  the  confed- 
erates. Tompkins  prepared  to  set  off  for 
Philadelphia,  and  Grey,  who  had  not  been 
totally  insensible  to  the  sufferings  of  his  family, 
resolved  to  remove  with  them  to  the  west,  where 
he  purposed  to  amend  his  life,  and,  if  possible, 
retrieve  his  fallen  fortunes.  But  when  did  a 
man  ever  prosper  upon  the  wages  of  iniquity  1 
The  very  day  before  his  unhappy  family  were 
to  have  quitted  their  desolate  home,  to  begin 
their  melancholy  journey,  he  was  seized  and 
imprisoned  for  forgery.  What  then  were  the 
sufferings  of  his  wife  and  children  ?  Though 
he  had  given  himself  up  to  sin  and  shame,  he 
was  still  the  husband  and  the  father,  and  never, 
even  in  the  days  of  youthful  affection,  had  Mrs. 
Grey  clung  so  fondly  to  her  husband  as  now, 
when  she  saw  him  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  guilt. 

Tompkins,    as    might    have    been   expected, 


ELSIE    GREY.  87 

became  evidence  against  the  man  whom  he  had 
ruined.  The  whole  plot  was  revealed,  and 
Grey's  only  chance  of  safety,  the  doubt  whether 
the  signature  of  a  name  actually  his  own  could 
be  deemed  forgery,  was  destroyed  by  the  facts, 
that  he  had  purposely  imitated  the  hand-writing 
of  another,  and  that  there  was  a  difference  in 
the  manner  of  spelling  the  two  names.  He  was 
found  guilty,  and  sentenced  to  seven  years'  hard 
labor  in  the  state  prison.  During  the  time 
which  elapsed  previous  to  the  trial,  Elsie  had 
given  all  her  care  and  attention  to  her  unhappy 
father.  Her  mother,  unable  to  visit  him  herself, 
was  only  content  when  she  knew  Elsie  was  near 
him ;  and  it  was  not  until  she  saw  him  led  to 
prison,  bearing  the  badge  of  guilt  upon  his 
shaven  brow,  that  she  returned,  almost  broken- 
hearted, to  her  wretched  mother. 

Elsie  had  attended  her  father  during  his  trial — 
she  had  stood  by  his  side  in  the  court  of  justice; 
and  not  a  word  which  could  affect  his  safety 
had  escaped  her  ear.  She  remarked  how  much 
public  sympathy  was  awakened.  She  observed 
how  fully  all  in  court  were  impressed  with  the 
belief  that  her  father  was  far  less  guilty  than 
his  infamous  adviser.  Deeply  did  she  reflect 
upon  all  she  had  witnessed,  until  her  vigorous 
mind  formed  a  scheme,  which  few  girls  of  four- 


88  ELSIE    GREY. 

teen  could  have  planned,  and  still  fewer  could 
have  executed.  She  stationed  herself  at  the 
door  of  the  hall,  until  she  saw  the  lawyer  who 
had  been  employed  to  conduct  the  prosecution 
against  her  father.  Humbly,  but  earnestly  be- 
seeching his  attention,  she  gave  him  a  simple 
account  of  the  situation  of  her  family.  Her 
extreme  beauty,  her  earnest  manner,  the  touch- 
ing pathos  of  her  voice,  excited  the  interest  of 
the  gentleman  to  whom  she  addressed  herself; 
and  he  determined  to  accompany  her  home. 
His  compassion  was  still  more  strongly  moved 
by  what  he  there  witnessed ;  and  he  became 
exceedingly  anxious  to  serve  her.  But  all  she 
asked,  was  the  pardon  of  her  father  ;  and  to  the 
attainment  of  this,  there  appeared  an  insur- 
mountable obstacle.  The  governor  of  the  state, 
who  alone  possessed  the  power  of  pardoning  a 
condemned  criminal,  had  publicly  declared  his 
determination  never  to  avail  himself  of  that 
privilege  in  favor  of  one  whom  an  impartial  jury 
had  declared  worthy  of  punishment.  The  kind 
lawyer,  however,  was  not  easily  to  be  discour- 
aged. He  proposed  to  Elsie,  that  she  should 
go  in  person  to  the  governor,  and,  with  no  other 
aid  than  her  own  simple  eloquence,  implore  the 
remission  of  her  father's  sentence.  The  heroic 
child  only  hesitated  until  she  could  be  assured 


ELSIE    GREY.  89 

that  her  mother  would  be  taken  care  of  during 
her  absence,  and  then  declared  herself  ready 
to  depart.  Furnished  with  a  plain  but  decent 
dress,  by  her  new  friend,  and  bearing  a  letter 
which  contained  a  full  exposition  of  her  father's 
case,  but  without  a  single  word  of  comment  or 
entreaty,  she  embarked  on  board  a  sloop  bound 
for  Albany.  A  visit  to  the  capital  was  not  in 
those  days  a  twelve  hours'  journey,  as  it  is  now. 
One,  two,  and  sometimes  three  weeks,  were 
frequently  consumed  in  toiling  against  adverse 
tides,  or  waiting  for  favorable  winds;  for  the 
quiet  Hudson  had  never  at  that  time  borne  a 
steam-boat  upon  its  bosom.  Elsie  was  thirteen 
days  in  arriving  at  the  destined  port,  and  the 
solitary  child  had  become  an  object  of  no  little 
interest  to  her  fellow-passengers.  None  knew 
her  story,  but  all  were  disposed  to  give  her  their 
best  wishes  when  they  parted  on  the  wharf  in 
Albany. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Elsie  found 
herself,  alone  and  friendless,  in  the  streets  of  the 
capital.  Having  inquired  her  way  to  the  gov- 
ernor's house,  she  resolved  never  to  leave  the 
door  till  she  had  told  him  her  errand.  For 
several  hours  she  sat  upon  the  steps,  waiting  for 
the  appearance  of  some  one  whom  she  might 
address,  when  at  length  a  gentleman  alighted 
8* 


90  ELSIE    GREY. 

from  a  carriage,  and  was  about  entering  the 
house.  Timidly  seizing  the  skirt  of  his  coat, 
Elsie  accosted  him  as  "Mr.  Governor."  "I  am 
not  Mr.  Governor,"  said  the  gentleman,  laughLig, 
"  but  I  suppose  my  sixpence  will  do  you  as  much 
good  as  if  it  came  out  of  his  excellency's  pocket." 
Though  sadly  disappointed,  Elsie  thankfully 
picked  up  the  piece  of  money  which  he  had 
thrown  upon  the  pavement,  and  again  resumed 
her  patient  vigil.  It  was  now  quite  dark,  and 
fearing:  to  remain  alone  in  the  street,  but  at  the 
same  time  unwilling  to  lose  sight  of  the  govern- 
or's door,  she  took  refuge  in  a  watchman's  box 
which  stood  near.  She  had  been  there  but  a  few 
minutes  when  the  watchman  entered.  At  first, 
accosting  her  harshly,  he  was  about  to  lead  her 
to  the  watch-house  as  a  vagrant,  but  her  artless 
tale  arrested  his  purpose.  "  It  is  too  late  for  you 
to  see  his  excellency  to-night,  my  good  girl," 
said  he,  "  but  to-morrow  you  may  have  better 
luck ;  in  the  mean  time,  you  can  spread  my  coat 
upon  the  floor,  and  sleep  till  my  watch  is  over." 
Elsie  gladly  availed  herself  of  this  permission, 
and  placing  herself  in  as  comfortable  a  position 
as  she  could,  slept  soundly  until  daybreak.  The 
good-natured  watchman  then  awoke  her  as  he 
was  about  to  return  home,  and,  thankino-  mm 
for  his  kindness,  the  forlorn  child   again  took 


ELSIE    GREY.  91 

her  station  on  the  steps  of  the  governor's  house. 
She  was  soon  driven  from  her  post  by  the  ser- 
vants, who  were  commencing  their  daily  house- 
hold duties;  but,  resolute  in  her  purpose,  she 
removed  from  their  immediate  neighborhood 
only  to  place  herself  on  the  stepping-stone 
opposite  the  door.  She  had  not  sat  long,  when 
a  rosy-cheeked  boy,  apparently  about  her  own 
age,  bounded  down  the  steps,  and  was  springing 
past  her,  when  he  was  arrested  by  her  timid 
grasp.  The  manly  little  fellow  listened  to  her 
tale  with  the  deepest  interest.  Tears  glistened 
in  his  blue  eyes  as  she  avowed  her  determination 
never  to  quit  the  door  till  she  had  seen  the  gov- 
ernor. "You  shall  see  him!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  my  father  will  not  refuse  me  so  small  a  favor ; 
come  into  the  house."  With  grateful  heart,  but 
timid  step,  Elsie  followed  her  young  conductor. 
They  entered  a  hall,  which,  to  her  eyes,  appear- 
ed magnificent ;  and  she  almost  feared  to  tread 
upon  the  brilliant  colors  which  spread  them- 
selves beneath  her  feet  as  she  ascended  the 
stairs.  "  Now,  take  off  your  hat,  and  wait  in 
this  room  till  I  come,"  said  the  boy,  opening  the 
door  of  a  small  apartment,  filled  up  as  a  library. 
"What  beautiful  hair  you  have!"  added  he, 
laughing,  as  she  removed  her  hat,  and  the  thick 
locks  fell  clustering  about  her  neck;  "I  wonder 


&2  ELSIE    GREY. 

what  sister  Mary  would  give  for  such  curls  ? — 
they  would  save  her  a  deal  of  trouble  with 
barbers." 

Poor  Elsie's  heart  sank  within  her  as  she 
found  herself  alone ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  her 
young  ?riend  returned,  leading  by  the  hand  a 
sta^iy-looking  man,  whose  benevolent  counte- 
nance by  no  means  realized  the  idea  which  she 
nad  formed  of  a  stern  and  unforgiving  governor. 
"  Why,  Frank,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
good-natured  smile,  as  he  saw  the  trembling 
little  girl,  "  have  you  brought  me  from  my 
breakfast  only  to  listen  to  the  story  of  a  pretty 
little  beggar  girl?"  "I  am  not  a  beggar,  sir," 
said  Elsie,  timidly;  "I  came  to  ask"— — She 
paused — her  courage  failed  her — she  could  not 
proceed.  "Tell  my  father  the  story  you  told 
me,"  said  the  anxious  boy.  With  faltering  voice, 
Elsie  began  her  tale.  Forgetting  her  fears,  as 
she  thought  of  her  father  and  mother,  she  spoke 
with  earnest  and  impassioned  eloquence.  The 
letter  which  she  bore  explained  the  merits  of  the 
case,  and  the  simple  pathos  of  her  untutored 
language  was  more  powerful  than  all  the  plead- 
ing in  the  world. 

The  governor  was  deeply  moved ;  but  how 
could  he  break  a  resolution  so  publicly  avowed, 
and  to  which  he  had,  in  numberless  instances, 


ELSIE    GREY.  93 

so  rigidly  adhered  1  Long  was  the  struggle  be- 
tween his  feelings  and  his  sense  of  duty — but 
humanity  prevailed.  "  Frank,"  said  he,  "  you 
will  see  me  abused  in  the  newspapers  for  this^ 
and  remember,  it  is  all  your  own  fault.  My 
good  girl,"  added  he,  turning  to  Elsie,  "  your 
father  shall  be  pardoned ;  but  upon  one  condi- 
tion,— he  must  quit  this  part  of  the  country.'' 
"God  forever  bless  you!"  cried  the  agitated 
girl,  as  she  sank  fainting  at  his  feet.  When  she 
recovered,  she  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  break 
fast-room,  and  surrounded  by  four  or  five  ladies, 
who  had  heard  enough  of  the  story  to  awaken 
their  kindest  feelings  in  her  behalf. 

A  few  days  after,  the  same  sloop  that  brought 
her  to  Albany  was  bearing  her  back  to  her  home 
But  she  was  no  longer  friendless  and  alone.  Her 
father,  penitent  and  grateful,  sat  beside  her,  and 
the  story  of  her  heroic  virtue  had  won  for  her  so 
many  "  golden  opinions,"  that  she  found  herself 
fully  enabled  to  supply  the  most  pressing  wants 
of  her  father  and  mother. 

Do  my  young  readers  desire  to  know  the  final 
destiny  of  Elsie  Grey  ?  In  one  of  the  flourish- 
ing settlements  of  the  far  West,  there  are  several 
wealthy  families,  who  claim  the  same  parentage. 
In  the  warmest  nook  of  their  cheerful  firesides, 
is  often  to  be  seen  a  placid-looking  old  lady, 


94  ELSIE    GREY. 

whose  figure  is  somewhat  bent  with  age,  out 
whose  black  eyes  are  still  bright,  as  she  watches 
the  playful  gambols  of  her  great-grandchildren. 
In  that  old  lady  we  may  recognize  our  friend 
Elsie  Grey.  Her  mother  died  with  blessings  on 
her  lips ;  her  father  lived  to  repent  the  error  of 
his  ways,  and  to  become  a  useful  member  of 
society  ;  and  as  a  wife  and  mother,  no  less  than 
as  a  daughter,  her  whole  life  has  been  character- 
ized by  virtue  and  usefulness. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


95 


ON    SEEING    A   PORTRAIT 

'Tis  beautiful !     That  fair,  high  brow 

Spreads  proudly  underneath  the  hair, 
Which  clusters  on  its  stainless  snow, 

And  sports  in  auburn  tresses  there. 
And  mark  the  full,  clear,  azure  eye. 

As  yet  undimmed  by  burning  tears, 
Which  seems  in  calm  intensity 

To  pierce  the  depths  of  coming  years. 

'Tis  beautiful !     What  seest  thou, 

Fair  boy  !  Do  fairy  visions  rise 
Of  tinselled  pomp,  of  heartless  show, 

Like  golden  clouds  in  summer  skies? 
Or  dost  thou  dream  of  azure  flowers — 

Of  gay-winged  birds,  with  thrilling  lay— 
Of  crystal  streams — of  spicy  bowers, — 

Along  thy  life's  untravelled  way? 

O  heed  them  not !     That  lip  of  pride 
Ope  not  to  pleasure's  siren  bowl ! 

Nor  trust  the  sparkling  streams  which  glide 
Toward  a  deep  and  sullen  goal ! 


36  ON    SEEING    A    PORTRAIT. 

But  mark  the  beacon-lights  which  shine 
Along  the  heights  of  glory  now ! 

Go,  worship  at  its  hallowed  shrine, 
And  pluck  the  laurel  for  thy  brow! 

W.  L.  A. 


97 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

A    TALE,    FOUNDED     ON     FACT 


BY   MRS.    HOFLAND. 


Every  body  in  the  village  of  Shepperton 
rejoiced  when  Benjamin  Burridge,  the  black- 
smith, had  a  legacy  left  him  by  a  distant  relation, 
for  he  was  a  man  whom  every  body  loved  and 
respected.  Of  late  they  had  also  pitied  him, 
for  he  was  a  severe  sufferer  from  a  complaint 
in  his  eyes,  contracted  in  consequence  of  his 
business,  and  which  threatened  blindness;  it 
therefore  was,  in  his  case,  an  extraordinary 
comfort  to  receive  such  a  sum  as  would  put  him 
in  the  way  of  helping  himself  and  family,  by 
some  other  mode  of  employment. 

After  many  consultations  with  his  friends,  and 
a  good  gentleman  who  took  an  interest  in  his 
proceedings,  it  was  at  length  thought  advisable, 
that  Benjamin  should  take  a  toll-bar,  which  was- 
to  be  let,  near  one  of  the  bridges  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London.  In  order  to  effect  this,  it 
was  necessary  that  some  one  should  be  bound 
9 


98  POOR   LITTLE    LUC1. 

for  the  year's  rent,  who  was  known  to  possess 
property  sufficient  to  cover  the  possible  loss. 
The  poor  man  was  able  to  furnish  half  the  sum 
required  himself,  and  the  gentleman  alluded  to 
was  willing  to  be  bound  for  the  other,  for  he  had 
long  observed  the  strict  probity  and  unremitting 
industry  of  this  worthy  man,  and  was  glad  of  an 
opportunity  of  benefiting  one  so  deserving,  and 
so  painfully  situated. 

The  family  consisted  of  Benjamin,  his  wife, 
three  little  sons,  and  a  daughter  named  Lucy. 
Betwixt  these  boys  and  their  sister  there  had  been 
two  other  children,  who  had  died  ;  so  that  although 
she  was  still  a  child,  in  her  eleventh  year  only, 
she  was  considerably  older  than  the  little  boys, 
and  a  person  of  great  importance  in  their  eyes ; 
for  she  was  continually  performing  for  them  some 
kind  office  or  other,  with  that  cheerful  good  will 
and  ready  kindness,  which  increases  tenfold  the 
value  of  the  service  it  confers.  Time  had  been, 
when  her  lightsome  step,  gay  voice,  and  smiling 
countenance,  promised  her  the  title  of  "  lively 
little  Lucy ; "  but,  as  she  was  a  child  of  great 
sensibility,  and  possessed  a  solidity  of  under- 
standing beyond  her  years,  her  sympathy  in  the 
sufferings  of  her  father,  and  the  apprehensions 
of  her  mother,  had  so  far  of  late  changed  her 
character,  that  she  too  had  become  an  object  of 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY,  99 

compassion,  and  was  generally  recognized  as 
"poor  little  Lucy." 

But  now,  all  was  again  happiness  and  grati- 
tude in  the  party  who  took  possession  of  their 
new  habitation,  and  looked  forward  to  a  humble 
but  quiet  home  for  many  years  to  come.  The 
house  was  small,  but  had  a  little  garden  beside, 
which  was  a  great  treat  to  the  boys,  and  a  new 
stimulant  to  Lucy's  industry.  The  noble  Thames, 
and  the  pleasure-vessels  on  its  smooth  bosom,  the 
handsome  equipages  that  passed  over  what  she 
called  ."  their  own  bridge,"  and  the  beautiful 
ladies  and  children  which  she  saw  through  the 
windows,  were  objects  of  great  pleasure  to  the 
little  girl ;  but  far  greater  was  the  thankfulness 
she  felt  to  God,  for  placing  her  father  in  a  state 
of  comparative  ease ;  and  tears  of  joy  would 
spring  into  her  eyes,  when  she  looked  in  his, 
and  remembered  that  the  sparks  of  the  smithy 
would  never  more  afflict  those  tender  organs — 
that  the  heat  of  the  fire  would  never  more  annoy 
him,  nor  the  kicks  of  horses  alarm  her  for  his 
safety. 

Under  these  happy  auspices,  all  the  family 
recovered  their  spirits;  and  Benjamin  himself, 
who  had  naturally  suffered  the  most,  grew  hearty 
and  chatty  once  more.  He  was  a  sober,  civil, 
and  religiously-disposed  man     with  a  great  taste 


J  00  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

for  reading,  it  was  painful  to  deny  himself 
indulging ;  but  when  Lucy  could  be  spared  from 
her  multifarious  employments,  and  take  a  book 
to  read  to  him,  he  was  happy  indeed ;  and  as  she 
sat  by  him  in  the  summer  evenings,  many  of 
those  who  passed  his  bar,  were  struck  by  the 
look  of  contentment  expressed  in  their  faces, 
and  the  neatness  and  propriety  of  every  thing 
around  them. 

A  neighbor,  who  was  himself  a  blacksmith, 
would  sometimes  join  them,  and  enter  into  con- 
versation on  the  news  of  the  day,  or  more  fre- 
quently on  subjects  connected  with  his  own 
business,  which  Benjamin  Burridge  found  more 
interesting,  because  he  understood  it  well.  The 
visitant  was  a  lively,  pleasant  man,  and  frequently 
brought  Lucy  flowers  or  apples  from  his  garden, 
which  she  hastened  into  the  house  to  distribute ; 
but  if  this  was  not  the  case,  he  would  (with  an 
air  of  great  consideration)  tell  her  to  take  that 
opportunity  of  getting  on  with  her  work,  as  he 
was  come  on  purpose  to  have  a  gossip  with  her 
father. 

Lucy  was  never  idle,  and  she  had  of  course 
plenty  of  work ;  there  were  the  boys  to  put  to 
bed,  their  stockings  to  mend,  the  supper  to  get 
forward,  the  garden  to  weed,  her  mother's 
errands  to  go,  and  her  mother's  wishes  to  attend 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  101 

to.  She  flew  from  place  to  place  like  the  indus- 
trious bee ;  and  if  she  did  not,  like  that  wonder- 
ful insect,  gather  honey  wherever  she  alighted, 
it  is  certain  she  left  marks  of  her  attention — for 
whose  table  and  fire-irons  were  so  bright  as 
Dame  Burrido-e's? — whose  children  had  such 
clean  faces  and  collars? — whose  hearth  was  so 
tidy,  whose  caps  so  white? — and  Lucy  had  a 
hand  in  every  thing. 

But,  alas !  the  natural  rewards  of  industry 
and  obedience  were  too  soon  denied  to  the  child 
who  merited  them  so  well ;  for  it  was  found  that 
her  father  had  entered  on  a  speculation  that 
would  not,  answer.  The  first  quarter,  it  had 
indeed  done  well ;  but  the  second  became  go 
deficient  in  receipts,  that  he  found  too  clearly 
that  it  would  not  nearly  pay  the  rent,  and  that  if 
he  continued  much  longer,  not  only  would  his 
own  little  property  be  swallowed  up,  but  that  for 
which  his  benefactor  was  so  kindly  but  unfortu- 
nately bound. 

This  sad  news  he  communicated  to  the  gen- 
tleman, who  took  an  opportunity  of  coming  over 
to  the  place  where  Burridge  lived,  and  inquiring 
into  all  the  particulars.  He  was  much  shocked 
to  observe  the  utter  dejection  into  which  the 
poor  man  had  fallen,  and  the  poverty  which  per- 
vaded their  humble  dwelling ;  for  such  a  salutary 
9* 


[02  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

horror  of  debt  had  the  honest  man  always  enter- 
tained, that  he  submitted  to  the  poorest  fare  on 
which  they  could  subsist  to  avoid  it.  He  told 
of  all  his  receipts  from  day  to  day,  his  utter 
incapability  of  paying  his  rent,  and  the  circum- 
stance of  his  being  bound  yet  for  a  long  time  to 
his  situation,  with  the  most  touching  anguish; 
adding,  "  that  his  affliction  was  the  greater,  be- 
cause his  neighbors  insisted  upon  it,  that  the 
same  number  of  people  went  through  the  bar  as 
formerly,  and  the  last  occupant  had  held  it  on 
the  same  terms,  and  did  very  well  with  it." 

The  gentleman  feared,  that,  as  his  sight  was 
weak,  some  people  were  wicked  enough  to  take 
advantage  of  him,  and  go  through  without  pay- 
ing ;  but  this  Burridge  would  not  allow :  he 
said,  "  that  although  fretting  was  not  the  way  to 
mend  sore  eyes,  his  were,  on  the  whole,  better ; 
that  he  was  always  on  the  spot  the  day  through, 
and  in  the  evenings,  Lucy  was  on  the  lookout 
as  well  as  himself,  and  she  was  clear-sighted 
enough  for  any  thing." 

The  gentleman  examined  his  till,  which  was  a 
portable  one,  and  fixed  on  the  side  of  the  chair 
in  which  he  usually  sat  under  a  porch  at  the 
door.  There  were  two  places  in  it  for  receiving 
halfpence  and  silver,  which  could  not  be  taken 
out  without  unlocking  the  bottom,  the  key  of 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  103 

which  was  kept  by  his  wife.  It  was  therefore 
plain,  that  he  could  only  be  robbed  by  the  whole 
apparatus  being  taken  away  together.  It  was 
always  carried  every  night  into  the  bed-room 
where  he  slept. 

"And  you  have  no  person  who  visits  you  that 
could  by  possibility  get  to  it?" 

"  No,  sir,  for  my  wife  hides  it  so  that  even 
Lucy  does  not  know  where  it  is ;  nor  have  we 
any  neighbors  here,  save  the  blacksmith,  who, 
now  and  then,  when  his  work  is  over,  comes 
and  leans  on  the  bar  to  chat  awhile— a  good 
creature  he  is,  and  well  knows  all  my  trouble. 
I  really  do  think,  if  I  had  not  him  to  speak  to, 
my  very  heart  would  break." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  would  have  you  be  careful 
of  even  him — money  cannot  go  without  hands, 
and  I  will  never  believe,  that  so  busy  a  road  as 
this  is,  does  not  produce  more  than  your  security ; 
let  your  children  watch." 

Lucy  felt  as  if  the  latter  piece  of  advice  could 
only  apply  to  her,  and  she  resolved  to  fulfil  her 
duty  so  far  as  she  was  able.  Naturally  very 
artless  and  sincere,  and  brought  up  by  parents 
too  honest  themselves  to  suspect  others,  no  fear 
of  treachery  had  entered  their  minds;  and, 
although  they  knew  themselves  amenable  to  rob* 
bery,  they  had  no  idea  of  fraud.     Indeed,  the 


104  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

poor  woman  was  more  inclined  to  attribute  their 
misfortunes  to  some  unknown  cause,  than  to  the 
wickedness  of  her  fellow-creatures ;  she  talked 
of  the  influence  of  "  evil  eyes,"  of  "  witchcraft, 
and  ill-luck;"  and  her  husband  was  obliged  to 
remind  her  that  such  folly  was  unworthy  of  her 
as  a  Christian,  and  unwise  as  a  mother. 

But  the  time  came  when  his  own  spirits  sunk 
so  entirely,  that  he  could  neither  reason  nor 
reprove ;  his  mind  grew  bewildered,  and  his 
memory  played  him  false,  for  he  would  insist  on 
having  given  change  for  sixpences  and  shillings, 
not  one  of  which  was  found  in  the  till,  which 
was  yet  constantly  under  his  own  care.  Day  by 
day  his  little  substance  was  wasting,  yet  his 
family  were  only  half  fed,  and  scanty  clothed  ; 
and  at  length  the  receipts  became  so  trifling, 
that  he  determined  to  seek  work  of  some  kind 
to  provide  his  little  ones  with  bread. 

As  he  lived  in  a  place  abounding  with  market 
gardeners,  it  was  not  long  before  he  gained  em- 
ployment, though  in  the  lowest  capacity,  and  for 
the  poorest  wages  ;  and  bitterly  did  his  wife  and 
daughter  weep,  wrhen  he  set  out ;  for  they  feared 
that  exposure  to  the  weather  might  subject  him 
to  many  complaints,  incident  to  those  who,  after 
working  in  the  fire,  are  compelled  to  bear  cold 
and  wet      Lucy   took  his  place   at  the  toll-bar. 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  106 

and  was  so  far  successful,  that  much  more  money 
was  found  in  the  till  than  had  been  for  many 
days — a  circumstance  the  poor  man  mentioned 
with  exultation  to  his  friend  the  blacksmith, 
when  he  came  in  the  evening  to  see  how  his 
new  labor  agreed  with  him. 

"  Lucy  is  a  good  girl,  and  handy  enough." 
replied  James  Willis,  the  neighbor;  "but  as 
the  spring  advances,  she  will  be  quite  unable  to 
do  the  work,  poor  thing  ! " 

"  My  mother  will  help  me,''  said  Lucy. 
eagerly,  for  she  was  made  happy  by  her 
success. 

"  So  will  I  help  you,  my  dear,  for  my  busi- 
ness is  not  over  good,  and  I  can  come  often 
during  the  busy  part  of  the  day,  as  I  see  what 
is  stirring  from  my  own  workshop."  Lucy 
could  not  help  feeling  very  sorry,  for  the  words 
of  her  father's  best  friend  rose  to  her  mind,  and 
something  like  suspicion  followed.  She  remem- 
bered how  often  she  had  been  sent  from  the  door 
by  this  man,  about  sunset,  when  her  father's 
sight  was  always  deficient ;  and  although  in  gen- 
eral he  was  very  smooth-tongued,  he  had  once 
or  twice  spoken  to  her  very  roughly,  for  only 
saying  that  there  was  a  spider  on  the  till,  and 
wishing  to  wipe  it  off. 

"  He  called  me  a  fool   for  talking  of  such  a 


106  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY 

thing,  and  said  I  was  as  blind  as  my  poor 
father,"  said  Lucy,  as  the  time  recurred  to  her 
memory ;  "  now,  surely,  if  my  eyes  deceived 
me,  I  was  to  be  pitied,  and  if  not,  I  might  have 
just  wiped  the  till  to  please  myself — besides, 
spiders  do  weave  in  the  night,  and  one  might 
have  done  it  then  over  the  slit  in  the  till ;  and 
in  the  fields  a  thousand  slender  lines  are  to  be 
seen  made  either  by  the  frost  or  by  insects,  and 
no  one  is  called  a  fool  for  observing  them.  I 
will  look  every  morning,  and  see  if  there  are 
any  lines  in  the  same  place  again." 

Lucy  did  so  look,  but  she  found  none ;  her 
father,  however,  continued  several  days  to  find 
what  was  better,  the  same  general  receipts  he 
had  first  experienced ;  but  he  was  rendered  so 
very  weak  and  rheumatic  by  his  present  occupa- 
tion, that  even  this  failed  to  raise  his  spirits ; 
and,  in  another  day  or  two,  the  hopes  of  poor 
Lucy  were  again  dashed  to  the  ground,  from 
finding,  that,  although  a  very  unusual  number 
of  persons  had  passed,  in  consequence  of  a 
grand  entertainment  in  the  neighborhood,  she 
had  taken  less  money  than  she  did  the  day 
before.  In  vain  she  called  on  James  Willis, 
who  had  been  with  her,  to  recollect  the  shillings 
and  half-crowns  he  had  handed  to  her  himself; 
he  could  remember  nothing,  except  "  that  most 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  1U« 

of  the  carriages  were  made  free  by  other  bars, 
and  on  the  whole,  little  was  taken." 

The  next  morning  poor  little  Lucy  took  her 
seat  with  such  a  disconsolate  air,  that  she 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  gentleman  on 
horseback,  who,  as  he  paid  the  toll,  inquired, 
with  a  compassionate  air,  "  if  she.  had  been  so 
unhappy  as  to  lose  her  father." 

"  Oh !  no,  sir,  thank  God,  my  dear  father  is 
alive,  but — but  I  fear  he  is  ruined."   . 

The  traveller  was  not  in  such-  a  hurry  but  he 
could  listen  to  little,  Lucy's  sad  story,  though 
her  tears  made  many  interruptions  to  her  narra- 
tive ;  at  length,  however,  he  observed,  "  that  he 
should  return  to  town,  and  would  make  farther 
inquiries  in  the  evening ;  indeed,  he  would 
converse  with  her  father  on  the  subject." 

When  he  was  gone,  Lucy  wondered  at  her 
own  courage  in  so  long  detaining  one  whom  she 
considered  to  be  "  a  very  grand  gentleman ;  "  nev- 
ertheless, she  felt  her  heart  consoled  by  the  belief, 
that  she  had  in  some  measure  procured  a  friend 
for  her  dear  father,  and  she  would  have  stepped 
in  to  tell  her  mother  what  had  passed,  but  was 
hindered  by  a  succession  of  passengers,  until 
the  good  woman  set  out  to  carry  her  husband's 
dinner. 

It  was  a  sharp  evening  in  April,  and  the  at 


IOB  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

was  frosty,  as  James  Willis  observed,  when  he 
sauntered  as  usual  towards  her.  Lucy  was 
knitting  when  he  came  up,  and  had  not  observed 
him  till  he  spoke,  but,  on  turning  her  head  to 
answer,  she  caught  the  glistening  of  what  she 
again  thought  was  a  spider's  web,  in  the  till. 
She  might  perhaps  have  shown  it  to  him,  but 
'wo  carriages  were  approaching,  and  she  opened 
the  gate.  Soon  after  came  three  or  four  gigs 
in  succession ;  then  a  britscha,  followed  by  a 
party  on  horseback.  Lucy  had  a  little  pocket, 
full  of  halfpence  in  her  apron,  and  she  gave 
change  over  and  over,  but  took  care  to  put  the 
silver  into  the  till  herself;  just  as  she  was 
dropping  in  the  last  sixpence  she  had  received, 
the  horseman  who  gave  it  to  her  inquired  for  a 
blacksmith,  as  his  horse  had  lost  a  shoe. 

'  James,  you  are  wanted  immediately,"  said 
Lucy ;  "  pray  don't  let  me  hinder  you." 

James  seemed  very  loath  to  go;  but  the 
gentleman  was  urgent,  and  they  departed 
together.  Lucy  recollected  the  web  on  the 
till,  and  said,  "  Now  I  will  take  it  off,  if  indeed 
the  silver  I  put  in  has  not  done  it."  In  saying 
this,  she  put  her  little  finger,  which  was  very 
small,  into  the  slip,  and,  to  her  great  astonish- 
ment,  perceived  that  it  rubbed  against  the 
edge  of  a  half-crown  which  she  had  given 
change  for 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  109 

Lucy  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  form 
of  the  till  not  to  know  that  some  extraneous 
substance  had  been  introduced,  or  the  silver 
could  not  have  been  stopped  in  its  course, 
"  It  is  the  web,  the  spider's  web,"  she  cried, 
not  knowing  what  she  said,  and  trembling  like 
an  aspen  leaf;  for  the  discovery  of  another's 
guilt  was  dreadful.  She  looked  wildly  round, 
fearing  the  return  of  James  Willis,  in  her  terror 
forgetting  his  engagement ;  but  to  her  unspeak- 
able relief,  beheld  her  morning's  friend  advan- 
cing over  the  bridge. 

"  Oh !  sir,"  she  cried,  "  surely  you  are  sent 
to  me  by  God  himself — I  have  found  it  out — - 
yes !  no !  but  you  can  find  it :  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  till  that  stops  the  silver — it  is  that 
which  ruins  poor  father." 

The  gentleman,  dismounting,  gave  his  horse 
to  his  groom,  and  went  into  the  house  with 
Lucy,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  hook  on  his 
watch-chain,  dislodged  a  wire  net,  capable  of 
holding  eight  or  ten  shillings,  and  of  being 
drawn  out  with  the  utmost  facility  by  a  proper 
instrument :  he  could  readily  conceive  how 
easily  a  man  half  blind  might  be  so  induced 
to  turn  his  sight  from  sunshine  or  shade,  as  to 
facilitate  the  views  of  a  cool,  watchful  villain ; 
and  Lucy's  account  of  her  own  unconsciousness 
10 


110  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

of  James  Willis's  approach,  until  he  spoke, 
showed  fully  his  usual  habits. 

As  the  gentleman  carefully  replaced  the  net 
as  he  had  found  it,  Lucy  could  not  forbear  to 
suggest  that  it  would  be  better  to  destroy  it 
altogether. 

"  Not  so,  Lucy — this  must  be  taken  away  by 
the  same  hand  which  has  robbed  you  so  long. 
It  is  not  enough  that  you  suspect  the  black- 
smith; I  must  have  you  convict  him.  Collect 
yourself,  and  tell  me  if  you  know  where  a 
constable  lives." 

"  The  master  of  the  Star  public-house  is  one, 
I  think." 

The  gentleman  went  out,  and  spoke  to  his 
servant;  he  then  mounted  and  rode  another 
way;  and  before  poor  Lucy  knew  what  she 
was  about,  James  Willis  was  seen  coming 
towards  her,  and  her  father  and  mother  also 
approaching  the  house,  at  a  little  distance 
behind  him.  Forgetting  every  thing  but  the 
great  discovery,  which  alone  filled  her  heart, 
yet  sensible  that  it  must  be  told  to  them  in 
secret,  the  poor  child  flew  towards  them,  and, 
of  course,  the  crafty  villain,  who  had  so  long 
preyed  upon  them,  like  a  vampire  sucking  the 
very  life-blood  from  their  honest  hearts,  pounced 
easily  upon  his  evening  prey,  and  became  pos- 


POOR    LITTLE    LUCY.  Ill 

sessed  of  various  coins,  all  of  which  had  been 
carefully  marked,  by  the  wise  and  benevolent 
man,  who  had  entered  so  kindly  into  the  aifairs 
of  Lucy  and  her  parents. 

Scarcely  had  he  contrived  to  pocket  the  silver, 
and  hide  the  medium  by  which  he  had  ingeni- 
ously, though  wickedly,  obtained  it,  when  the 
constable  arrived,  and  he  was  seized,  to  the  utter 
astonishment  of  poor  Burridge,  with  the  proofs 
of  his  guilt  upon  him — proofs  also,  that,  but  for 
him,  the  long-afflicted  family  might  have  lived  in 
peace  and  plenty. 

The  former  friend  of  the  toll-keeper  united 
with  Lucy's  friend  to  render  his  circumstances 
comfortable,  and  to  see  justice  executed  on  the 
cruel  miscreant  who  had  wronged  him,  and  whose 
fate  could  excite  no  pity  from  any  one,  since  he 
had  the  means  of  living  honestly  and  respectably 
in  his  hands,  and  had  witnessed  the  sinking 
hearts  and  pale  faces  of  his  neighbors,  and 
heard  their  sad  lamentations  day  by  day,  un- 
moved ;  and  his  cruelty  was  even  more  hateful 
than  his  dishonesty.  He  was  sentenced  to  be 
transported  for  life ;  poor  little  Lucy  being 
necessarily  the  principal  witness  against  him, 
and  giving  her  important  information  with  so 
much  modesty  and  good  feeling,  as  to  elicit  the 
approbation  of  the  judge  upon  the  bench. 


112  POOR    LITTLE    LUCY. 

With  relief  to  their  anxious  hearts,  and  in- 
crease of  their  humble  comforts,  health  and 
happiness  were  soon  restored  to  Benjamin  Bur- 
ridge  and  his  family ;  and  their  past  misfortunes 
having  interested  many  persons,  and  displayed 
the  probity  and  industry  for  which  they  were 
remarkable,  as  time  advanced,  their  sons  were 
apprenticed  advantageously,  and  are  now  ad- 
vancing in  life  with  the  happiest  prospects. 

Their  good  and  active  daughter  continues 
with  them,  the  delight  of  their  eyes,  and  the 
comfort  of  their  hearts ;  for  neither  parent  could 
bear  to  part  with  her,  who  happily  is  no  longer 
their  poor  little  Lucy. 


IIS 


A   COMPANION 


BY    S.    C.    HALL,    ESQ. 


They  tell  me  of  a  flower,  that  sleeps  all  the  day 

To  shine  in  its  beauty  at  night; 
But  when  its  companions  are  blooming  and  gay, 

That  lonely  one  shrinks  from  the  sight. 

And  many  there  are  who  pass  heedlessly  on, 
And  deem  it  a  weed  of  the  bower ; 

But  when  sweets  of  the  day  into  slumber  have 
gone, 
The  fragrance  comes  forth  from  that  flower. 

Thus  some,  who,  when  life  is  all  sunny  and  bright, 
Like  the  flowers  that  shine  with  the  ray, 

Come  forth  with  the  day-beam,  but  shrink  from 
our  sight, 
And  glide  with  our  gladness  away ; 

While  others,  when  sadness  is  over  the  heart, 
That  struggles  in  vain  with  its  power, 

Their  fragrance  and  beauty  around  us  impart, 
And  smile  o'er  the  gloomiest  hour. 
10* 


114  A    C0MF  ANION. 

Oh !  soother  of  sadness — oh !  stiller  of  strife — 
Wnere  is  gloom  when  I  gaze  upon  thee  1 — 

Upon  thee — my  companion,  my  friend,  and  my 
wife, 
Whose  smile  is  ne'er  absent  from  me ! 


115 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF   IDLENESS 


BY   MISS    E.    F.    DAGLET. 

"  No  3iie  did  ever  servitude  detest 
Liko  him 


His  service  he  would  freely  3'ield  unasked, 
But  lost  all  heart  and  hope  if  he  were  tasked." 

Orlando  Inamorato. — Bebni. 


"  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  to  his  son,  as 
they  were  taking  a  walk  one  morning,  in  the 
middle  of  winter,  "  did  you  remark  that  poor 
old  man  that  we  passed  just  now,  who  was  pick- 
ing sticks  out  of  the  hedge? " 

"  I  did,  indeed,  father.  How  pinched  and 
wretched  he  looked  ;  and  yet  for  all  his  tattered 
coat,  there  was  something  about  him  that  ap- 
peared as  if  he  had  seen  better  days.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  he  were  going  to  ask  charity,  but 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  it.  How  thank- 
ful he  was  when  you  put  the  shilling  into  his 
hand !  Do  you  know,  papa,  I  was  afraid  you 
did  not  mean  to  give  him  any  thing?  and  I 
thought,  as  he  did  not  beg,  he  deserved  it  the 
more,  for  I  am  sure  he  seemed  a  real  object." 

'  He  is  at  present  a  real  object,"  replied  Mr. 


116  THE    INDUSTRY  a^LENESS. 

Morton.  "  Nevertheless,  it  is  his  own  fault  that 
he  is  reduced  to  this  condition.  It  is  a  right 
feeling  in  you,  my  dear  boy,  to  wish  to  relieve 
uncomplaining  distress ;  but  the  reason  why  I 
hesitated  before  I  offered  him  money,  was  be- 
cause I  feared  to  trust  his  feelings.  But  I  find, 
although  poor  George  Seldon  does  not  ask  alms, 
he  is  very  willing  to  receive  them.  Incurable 
idleness  will  make  its  votary  submit  to  almost 
any  degradation. 

"  But  now,  Charles,  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
something  of  the  early  history  of  this  unfortu- 
nate man,  and  I  trust  it  will  prove  a  useful  les- 
son to  you." 

"  To  me,  to  me,  father  ! "  cried  the  boy.  "  I 
hope  you  do  not  think  that  I  am  very  idle." 

"  No,  Charles,  I  do  not  complain  of  your 
being  idle,  in  the  general  acceptation  of  the 
term.  Nevertheless,  I  frequently  observe  in  you 
an  unwillingness  to  apply  to  any  given  task ;  and 
to  escape  from  it,  you  have  often  undertaken  a 
more  difficult  one  than  that  which  was  set  before 
you.  Now  it  was  that  very  habit  of  skipping 
from  one  regular  and  necessary  restraint,  that 
brought  poor  Seldon  from  respectability  to  his 
present  state  of  pauperism. 

"  You  will,  I  dare  say,  be  much  surprised, 
Charles,  to  hear  that  Mr.  Howard  and  that  poor 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS.  117 

old  man  were  formerly  schoolfellows;  and  it  is 
from  my  friend  that  I  have  heard  some  particu- 
lars of  his  history,  which,  though  little  more 
than  relations  and  anecdotes  of  his  school  days, 
are  yet  sufficient  to  show  that  the  habits  of  self- 
indulgence  led  to  all  the  misfortunes  which  have 
attended  him  through  life. 

"  According  to  my  friend  Howard's  account, 
whoever  saw  George  Seldon  setting  out  for 
school  on  a  Monday  morning,  might  at  once 
conclude  that  he  was  an  idle  boy;  there  was 
such  an  appearance  of  utter  sloth  and  inveterate 
laziness  in  the  manner  in  which  he  would  sling 
his  satchel  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other  ; 
scuffing  his  feet  as  he  went  along  in  the  dust,  or 
stopping  short  to  catch  flies  on  the  wall ;  doing 
any  thing,  in  fact,  to  prolong  the  time.  Indeed, 
he  evinced  so  much  unwillingness  to  reach  the 
place  of  his  destination,  that  every  body  must 
have  imagined  he  was  a  terrible  dunce,  and  in 
dread  of  punishment.  This  was  not  the  case, 
however.  George  was  well  enough  liked,  both 
by  his  schoolmaster,  and  also  by  his  school- 
fellows. He  was  by  no  means  dull,  and  when 
he  gave  his  mind  to  it,  had  no  trouble  in  learn- 
ing. But  this  boy's  besetting  sin  was  an  insur- 
mountable dislike  to  attend  to  any  thing  in  a 
regular   way.      Consequently,    school,  with   its 


118  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

tasks  and  clock-work  punctuality,  was  to  George 
the  most  irksome  thing  in  the  world. 

"  He  was  by  no  means  singular  in  this  respect. 
Discipline  is  indeed  a  severe  curb  on  the  spirits 
of  youth ;  nevertheless,  it  is  a  necessary  one  ; 
and,  in  general,  those  who  feel  restraint  tho 
hardest,  require  it  the  most;  for,  certainly,  of 
all  that  is  acquired  at  school,  the  habits  of  steadi- 
ness and  regularity  are  not  the  least  useful. 

"  George  Seldon  was  an  only  child.  He  had 
lost  his  mother  during  his  infancy,  and  his 
father's  time  being  much  occupied,  gave  the  boy 
more  liberty  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  inclina- 
tion, than  he  would  otherwise  have  had.  He 
was  sent  to  a  good  school,  and  got  on  like  most 
other  boys  of  his  age,  and  Mr.  Seldon  felt  satis- 
fied. As  to  his  not  liking  school,  the  father  con- 
sidered it  a  very  natural  thing,  for,  though  he 
was  very  fond  of  holidays,  he  was  never  unem- 
ployed. Unfortunately,  here  lay  the  mistake. 
George  was  idle ;  yet  he  could  be  very  assiduous 
-vhen  the  task  was  one  of  his  own  choice. 

"  Now,  Charles,  believe  me,  there  is  no  kind 
of  idleness  so  inveterate  and  incurable,  as  that 
which  makes  a  person  seek  any  employment 
rather  than  the  one  which  it  is  his  duty  to  per- 
form. Very  few  people  wish  to  lead  a  life  of 
entire  indolence ;  and  even  those  who  have  the 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS.       119 

inclination,  feel  ashamed  to  indulge  it ;  but  there 
are  numbers  who  deceive  themselves,  as  well  as 
others,  by  a  show  of  industry ;  that  is,  by  sedu- 
lously employing  themselves  upon  any  thing  but 
their  own  proper  business ;  and  thus  it  was  with 
George  Seldon. 

"  During  the  vacation,  he  was  an  alert,  active 
lad,  with  a  quick  step  and  brisk  manner;  no 
listless  hanging  of  his  arms,  no  lingering  on 
his  road,  for  he  was  not  going  to  school.  Still, 
there  was  a  drawback  on  this  season  of  enjoy- 
ment. The  task  to  be  learnt  during  the  holidays 
was  a  sore  evil ;  and  although  he  knew  the  non- 
performance of  it  would  lead  to  disgrace  and 
punishment,  yet  I  have  heard  my  friend  say, 
that  his  contrivances  to  evade  it,  and  to  excuse 
himself  for  so  doing,  even  to  his  schoolfellows, 
were  quite  curious,  and  so  palpable,  that  his  two 
intimates,  James  Wilson  and  Edward  Howard, 
although  thoughtless  boys,  could  not  help  being 
amused  by  them. 

"  One  time,  during  the  last  week  of  a  vacation, 
as  George  and  my  friend  were  walking  together, 
after  some  excursion  in  the  fields,  Edward  How- 
ard asked  his  companion  whether  he  was  ready 
with  his  task  for  the  ensuing  Monday. 

" '  Why,  not  quite,'  replied  George,  rubbing 
his  face. 


120  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

" '  Oh,  then,  you  have  done  some  of  it,'  said 
Edward. 

"  '  Yes ;  that  is,  not  much ;  however,  let  me 
see,  to-day  is  Wednesday;  well,  then  there  is 
Thursday,  Friday,  and  Saturday.  To  be  sure, 
I  am  going  to  see  my  cousins  to-morrow,  and  on 
Friday  they  are  coming  to  our  house.  Still,  I 
shall  have  an  hour  or  two  in  the  morning,  and 
the  whole  of  Saturday.  Plenty  of  time,  you 
see,  only  it  will  be  plaguy  hard  to  stay  moping 
at  home  the  whole  day,  for  this  tiresome  task ; 
it  is  a  shame  to  give  one  no  more  time.' 

»  « Why,  you  unconscionable  lazy  fellow,'  said 
his  companion,  laughing ;  '  have  you  not  had  six 
weeks,  the  same  as  the  rest  of  us?' 

" '  Ah,  but  you  do  not  know  what  I  have  had 
to  do ;  however,  I  shall  set  to  work,  and  be  ready 
for  Monday.' 

"  George  then  fell  into  a  brown  study  for  some 
minutes,  though  in  all  probability  not  so  much 
on  account  of  his  neglected  task,  as  because 
being  reminded  of  it,  brought  the  thoughts  of 
school  to  his  mind,  with  all  its  train  of  disagree 
able  associations.  Monday  came  full  soon  for 
George,  who,  having  put  off  his  task  till  the  last, 
was,  as  you  may  suppose,  unprepared.  He 
started,  however,  for  school  at  the  usual  time, 
and  not,  as  might  be  expected,  with  a  lagging 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS.  121 

step ;  but  rather  with  a  sort  of  desperate  resolu- 
tion to  meet  the  worst ;  but  his  brisk  pace  did 
not  hold  long,  and  he  was  soon  overtaken  by 
his  two  companions,  Edward  and  James. 

'r'Well,  George,'  said  the  former,  '  did  you 
get  through  your  task  on  Saturday?' 

"'If  you  have,'  added  James,  'I'll  hear  you 
repeat  it,  if  you  like ;  we  have  plenty  of  time ; 
they  are  never  early  the  first  day.' 

''•  George  turned  sharply  round,  first  to  the  one, 
then  to  the  other,  hardly  knowing  whether  they 
felt  any  real  anxiety  about  him  and  his  task,  or 
were  diverting  themselves  at  his  expense. 

"  Now,  in  truth,  as  my  friend  Howard  de- 
clared, a  degree  of  both  these  feelings  urged 
the  inquiry.  They  were  good-natured  boys, 
who  would  have  been  sorry  to  have  seen  George 
in  disgrace,  yet  they  could  not  help  being  occa- 
sionally amused  by  his  plans  and  manoeuvres,  to 
escape  any  thing  he  did  not  like ;  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause — 

"'I  have  not  learned  it,'  said  George;  'in 
fact,  I  could  not ;  my  father  took  me  to  town 
wi*h  him  on  Saturday,  to  see  a  friend  who  is 
going  abroad,  and  we  did  not  get  home  till  quite 
late ,  so  you  see  it  was  not  my  fault.  I  did  look 
over  my  task  a  bit  this  morning,  but  I  cannot 
say  I  am  much  the  forwarder.  What  could  I  do  ? ' 
11 


122  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

"'I  do  not  know  what  you  could  do,'  said 
James ;  '  but  I  am  thinking  what  you  will  do,  or, 
rather,  what  you  will  say  to  Mr.  Brian.  What 
possible  excuse  can  you  make  1 ' 

"'Indeed,'  said  George,  proudly,  '  I  shall  tell 
the  truth,  which  is,  you  know,  that  I  have  not 
had  the  opportunity.' 

"  '  Why,  you  do  not  call  that  telling  the  truth,' 
said  Edward ;  '  the  truth  is,  you  have  been  an 
idle  chap,  and  put  off  the  job  till  the  last  mo- 
ment. My  stars !  I  think  I  hear  you  tell  Mr. 
Brian  you  have  not  had  time  to  learn  your  task, 
and  see  him  rear  up  his  eyebrows  at  the  notion — 
and  he  will  say,  Sir ! — I  do  not  think  he  will  say 
another  word,  only  I  would  not  be  in  your  place 
for  a  trifle.' 

"  George  looked  appalled  at  the  prospect. 

"  'Well,'  said  James,  'my  brother  Frank  and  I 
used  to  be  just  as  bad — leaving  our  tasks  to  the 
last,  thinking  there  was  plenty  of  time,  till  there 
was  no  time  at  all ;  and  still  it  was  like  a  load  on 
one's  mind,  all  the  while ;  and  though  we  thought 
lightly  of  it  at  first,  it  seemed  worse  and  worse 
the  longer  we  put  it  off.  So,  last  holiday  but  one, 
Frank  said  to  me,  James,  I  will  tell  you  what 
we  will  do — we  will  set  up  a  resolution  to  get 
over  the  business  the  first  week  in  the  vacation, 
instead  of  the  last,  and  not  call  it  holidays  till  it 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS.  123 

is  done ;  well,  with  learning  a  bit  every  day  the 
first  week,  we  got  through  it,  and  we  had  only 
to  look  at  it  afterwards  now  and  then,  to  be  safe 
and  sure ;  and  then,  you  see,  the  task  being  off 
our  minds,  we  could  be  as  merry  as  crickets  the 
rest  Of  the  holidays.  Frank  has  left  school 
these  twelve  months,  but  I  keep  on  with  this 
plan,  and  indeed,  George,  I  would  advise  you 
to  do  the  same.' 

" '  That  I  will,  depend  upon  it,'  replied 
George,  very  willing  to  listen  to  good  advice 
which  regarded  the  future  only. 

"'But,  after  all,'  cried  the  persevering  Ed- 
ward, l  how  could  it  be,  that,  through  the  whole 
vacation,  you  could  not  find  time  to  learn  a  task 
that  could  not  at  most  have  taken  up  more  than 
half  a  day,  so  that,  if  you  had  taken  an  hour 
now  and  an  hour  then,  you  might  have  been 
better  prepared?' 

"  •  Well,  so  I  did  now,  at  least,  so  1  intended 
to  do,  but  somehow — now  you  need  not  laugh — 
I  am  sure,  if  I  have  not  learned  my  task,  nobody 
can  say  I  have  been  idle ;  and  I  remember  how 
it  was — the  first  week  we  had  a  great  deal  of 
company,  so  that,  with  going  to  bed  late,  I 
could  not  get  up  very  early ;  well,  then,  I 
thought  I  would  do  as  you  said,  get  on  a  bit 
every   day   with    it — but    let    me    see — oh!    I 


124  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

remember,  I  caught  a  severe  cold  and  had  the 
toothache,  and  you  know,  when  one  is  in  pain, 
one  has  no  heart  for  learning — well,  then,  when 
my  cold  was  better,  I  sat  down  one  day,  and 
was  getting  on  famously  with  it,  when  who 
should  come  in  but  poor  Robert  Cooper,  to  tell 
me  that  his  father,  mother,  and  all  of  them, 
were  going  to  live  a  great  way  off  in  the 
country ;  and  knowing  it  was  my  holidays,  he 
said  he  was  come  on  purpose  to  ask  me  to  take 
a  walk  with  him  for  the  last  time,  and  then  to 
go  home  and  dine  at  his  house — now,  what 
could  I  do  ? — indeed,  I  had  half  a  mind  to  tell 
him  I  could  not  spare  the  time  to  take  a  walk, 
•but  that  would  have  seemed  so  very  illnatured, 
for  poor  Robert  had  quite  set  his  heart  on  my 
going  with  him  to  fly  his  new  kite ;  oh !  such  a 
beauty  !  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it.' 

"  George  then  entered  into  a  description  of 
the  kite,  which  so  interested  his  companions, 
that  all  thoughts  of  school  and  neglected  tasks 
were  obliterated  from  their  minds,  till  the  party 
found  themselves  actually  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Brian's  academy. 

"  But  now  affairs  took  a  different  turn,  and 
the  boys  learned,  to  their  infinite  satisfaction, 
that  attendance  at  school  would  not  be  required 
till  the  following  Wednesday,  in  consequence  of 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS.  125 

some  repairs  which  the  house  was  undergoing 
not  being  completed. 

"  Most  gayly  did  the  party  retrace  their  steps; 
their  caps  were  simultaneously  thrown  into  the 
air,  and  a  loud  huzza  proclaimed  the  delight 
they  felt  at  their  unexpected  holiday. 

"To  James  Wilson  and  my  friend,  the 
pleasure  was  unalloyed;  but  George,  though 
released  for  the  present,  felt,  perhaps,  more  than 
ever,  the  irksomeness  of  returning  immediately 
to  apply  to  his  neglected  task. 

"  He  went  home,  however,  with  a  full  deter- 
mination, as  he  assured  his  companions,  of 
making  up  for  lost  time,  while  the  other  two 
agreed  that  they  would,  with  the  consent  of 
their  parents,  make  an  excursion  into  a  wood, 
which  was  famed  for  abundance  of  wild  straw- 
berries :  full  of  this  scheme,  the  boys  returned 
to  their  respective  homes,  which  were  near 
together,  and,  as  there  appeared  neither  mis- 
chief nor  danger  in  their  plan,  they  were 
allowed  to  go. 

"The  lads  had  proposed,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  start  on  their  expedition  at  noon ;  but,  as  the 
distance  was  moderate,  and  the  days  long,  they 
were  persuaded  by  their  parents  not  to  set  out 
so  soon.  Accordingly,  it  was  not  till  after  foui 
o'clock  that  they  set  off, 
11* 


126  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

"And  now  a  consultation  took  place  as  to 
whether  it  would  be  advisable  to  call  on  George 
Seldon  on  their  way,  and  invite  him  to  join  their 
party.  At  first  they  considered  that  if  he  had 
applied  to  his  book,  from  the  time  he  went 
home  till  then,  it  was  as  long  a  period  as  any 
boy  could  be  expected  to  give  to  a  task  in  one 
day — but  then — and  there  were  so  many  huts  in 
the  case  of  George  Seldon — how  much  more 
probable  it  was,  that  he  had  not  given  half  this 
time  to  it ;  then  would  it  be  right  to  throw 
temptation  in  his  way  1  and  their  consciences 
telling  them  it  would  not,  they  concluded  on 
going  without  him,  and,  to  avoid  passing  his 
house,  which  was  in  their  road,  the  lads  agreed 
to  take  another  route. 

"  '  For,'  said  Edward,  '  it  would  be  a  grievous 
thing  for  poor  George,  who,  perhaps,  is  hard  at 
his  book,  to  see  us  starting  for  a  holiday.' 

"  Away  went  the  boys  to  the  wood ;  and,  if  it 
did  not  afford  them  quite  such  a  profusion  of 
strawberries  as  they  had  expected,  they  had  the 
more  sport  in  hunting  them  out :  altogether 
they  had  a  merry  and  pleasant  afternoon.  On 
their  way  home  in  the  evening,  whom  should  they 
spy  at  a  little  distance  before  them,  but  George 
Seldon,  to  all  appearance  very  hot  and  very 
tired, — for  he  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS.       12? 

was  crawling  on  as  slowly  as  if  he  had  been 
going  to  school. 

" '  Why,  George/  said  James,  on  coming  up 
with  him,  '  where  in  the  world  have  you  been  ? 
I  am  sure,  if  we  had  thought  you  could  have 
spared  time  to  go  out,  we  would  have  called  on 
you  to  go  with  us/ 

"'Oh,  indeed,'  replied  George,  'I  have  not 
been  idle,  you  see, — on  the  contrary,  I  have 
been  hard  at  work  all  day — ' 

"'Well,  but,'  said  Edward 

" f  I'll  tell  you  exactly  how  it  happened,'  said 
George,  interrupting  him ;  '  I  went  home,  as 
you  know,  intending  to  sit  down  in  earnest  to 
my  task,  when,  just  after  I  got  in,  Mr.  Benson 
called  at  our  house,  and  he  said  how  glad  he 
was  the  day  was  so  fine,  for  he  had  great  hopes 
it  would  afford  him  the  opportunity  of  getting 
in  the  hay,  about  which  he  had  been  long 
anxious,  and  that  he  had  left  his  three  boys  hard 
at  work  in  the  field,  for  he  was  sure  the  weather 
would  soon  change.  Well,  though  he  did  not 
ask  me  to  come  and  help,  I  knew  he  expected  I 
would  offer.  Then  I  thought  what  a  pleasant 
day  the  boys  would  have,  of  it,  (not  that  I 
minded  that,)  but  considering  if  it  should  turn 
rainy,  what  a  pity  it  would  be.  You  know  the 
hay  is  of  very  great  consequence — so  I  could 


128  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

not  help  offering  to  lend  him  a  hand,  and  after 
all,  I  can  learn  my  task  to-morrow.' 

"And,  most  unexpectedly,  George  did  man- 
age this  time  to  get  his  task ;  but  the  confidence 
this  gave  him  of  his  own  powers  in  being  able 
to  fetch  up  lost  time,  proved  most  unfortunate 
for  him.  For  some  weeks,  however,  all  went 
on  tolerably  well :  George  was  seen  trudging 
with  his  companions  to  school,  with  apparently 
less  reluctance  than  formerly ;  but,  alas !  it  was 
only  for  a  while ;  the  holiday  fever  once  more 
began  to  burn  in  George's  view,  and  the  lagging 
step  told  the  old  story.  Again  he  began  to  set 
his  wits  to  work  in  order  to  contrive  means 
of  escaping  from  his  daily  restraints  without 
playing  truant,  or  letting  his  non-attendance 
have  the  appearance  of  making  holidays. 

"  One  day,  when  his  young  friends  called  for 
him  on  their  way  to  school,  they  were  informed 
George  had  set  out  a  full  quarter  of  an  hour 
before.  This  was  a  very  unusual  thing;  and 
what  appeared  more  strange,  George  did  not 
arrive  at  school  till  full  five  minutes  after  them, 
neither  did  he  join  them  in  the  afternoon  on 
their  return. 

"  l  James,'  said  my  friend  Howard,  c  what  do 
you  think  I  have  a  notion  of? — that  Seldon  will 
not  be  at  school  to-morrow :  we  never  see  him 
so  brisk  unless  he  is  planning  a  holiday.' 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS.       129 

"  Sure  enough,  on  the  ensuing  day,  George 
did  not  make  his  appearance ;  and  his  two 
companions,  fully  aware  of  his  contrivances  to 
escape,  school,  had  often  much  entertainment  in 
sifting  his  plans,  which  he  never  liked  to 
acknowledge,  even  to  himself;  for  George 
generally  soothed  his  conscience  by  endeavoring 
to  persuade  himself  his  measures  were  matters 
of  necessity.  Accordingly,  two  days  after, 
when  his  companions  inquired  what  he  had 
been  about,  they  heard  he  had  been  sent  by  his 
father  to  carry  a  very  curious  root  to  an  uncle 
who  lived  at  some  distance,  and  who  was  a  great 
botanist. 

" '  It  is  well  to  be  you,'  cried  James,  '  to  be 
able  to  get  a  holiday  whenever  you  have  a  mind 
for  it.' 

"'What  do  you  mean,  James?  it  was  no 
holiday ;  I  went  because  my  father  desired  me 
to  go.  On  Monday  afternoon  I  happened  to 
find  a  very  curious  root  as  I  was  going  home, 
and  so  I  showed  it  to  my  father,  who  said  he 
had  never  seen  any  thing  at  all  like  it,  and  per- 
haps my  uncle  might  consider  it  a  curiosity,  and 
so  he  gave  me  leave  to  take  it  over  to  him.' 

" '  Well,'  said  Edward,  '  I  only  wish  I  had  an 
uncle  a  botanist,  that  I  might  make  an  errand 


130  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

to,  this  fine  weather.  Tuesday  was  a  nice  day 
for  a  holiday.' 

" '  Dear  me,  how  you  both  keep  saying  I  took 
a  holiday,  when  I  am  sure  I  should  not  have 
gone,  if  my  father  had  not  wished  it ;  have  not 
I  told  you  exactly  how  it  was?' 

" '  No,  George,'  said  Edward,  '  I'll  tell  you 
exactly  how  it  was.  On  Monday  you  began  to 
think  how  you  could  get  off  a  day's  schooling ; — 
so,  instead  of  returning  with  us  as  usual,  you 
went  rummagincr  over  the  fields,  and  among  the 
hedges,  and  ditches,  and  ponds,  in  order  to 
make  some  wonderful  discovery,  and  then  at 
last  you  picked  up  some  odd  bit  of  grass  or 
weed,  and  when  you  carried  it  home,  persuaded 
your  father  it  was  a  great  curiosity,  and  that  it 
would  be  a  treasure  to  your  uncle,  if  you  might 
be  allowed  to  take  it  over  to  him.  You  see,  my 
fine  fellow,  we  are  not  to  be  deceived.' 

"  George  endeavored  to  defend  himself  from 
the  charge  of  a  truant  errand ;  but  his  manner 
sufficiently  showed  that,  if  his  companions' 
banter  had  not  entirely  hit  the  mark,  they  were 
not  far  from  the  truth,  which  George  himself 
could  not  easily  deny. 

" '  But  indeed,'  added  George,  '  I  had  had 
such  a  fag  of  it  the  day  before,  that  I  felt  I 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS.       131 

should  do  no  good  at  school  on  Tuesday. 
Don't  you  have  that  feeling  sometimes,  Ned  ? ' 

"'Very  often/  replied  his  friend;  'but 
certainly  I  do  not  suffer  from  it  to  the  degree 
that  you  do.' 

"  'There,  now^you  are  laughing  at  me  again.' 

"'I  can't  help  it,  George;  and  now  I  will 
tell  you  what  an  attack  I  had  of  your  complaint 
once,  which  I  think  I  must  have  caught  of  you ; 
for  I  think  at  that  time  you  used  to  stay  away 
from  school,  on  one  pretext  or  other,  three  days 
out  of  the  six.' 

"  •  Oh,  never  !  never  ! ' 

" '  Be  quiet,  and  let  me  tell  my  story.  Once 
upon  a  time,  I  had  made  a  very  pretty  ship,  and 
of  course  I  had  a  great  longing  to  see  it  sail. 
Well,  but  so  it  happened,  that  for  three  weeks 
every  half-holiday  had  been  bad  weather ;  so  at 
last  I  grew  quite  desperate  about  it,  and  one 
very  fine  morning,  I  felt,  as  you  say,  as  if  I 
should  do  no  good  at  school ;  so,  while  I  was 
thinking  about  it,  my  father  asked  me  if  I  was 
not  getting  ready.  Yes,  sir,  said  I,  I  am  going 
directly,  but —  But  what,  Ned?  said  my 
father ; — so  then  I  told  him  that  I  felt  so  strange 
and  so  stupid,  that  I  thought  I  should  do  no 
good  at  my  book  that  day. 

" '  My  father  burst  out  laughing ;    Ned,  said 


132  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

he,  speak  honestly;  you  want  to  go  and  sail 
your  ship  this  morning,  is  not  that  it  1  Well,  it 
was  the  truth,  so  I  did  not  deny  it;  and  my 
father  said  that,  in  -consideration  of  the  many 
disappointments  I  had  had,  he  would  allow  me 
to  go  that  morning. 

" '  But  one  thing  he  said,  Remember,  my  boy, 
never  let  me  hear  again  of  your  being  stupid 
and  unable  to  learn.  So  I  never  ventured  to 
try  for  a  holiday  in  that  way  again.' 

•"And  I,'  said  James,  'once,  and  once  only, 
played  truant,  for  which  I  got  punished  both 
at  school  and  at  home;  so  I  do  think  taking 
extra  holidays  costs  people  more  than  they  are 
worth.' 

"In  this  manner,  partly  by  banter,  and  partly 
by  persuasion,  did  his  young  companions  en- 
deavor to  work  upon  the  temper  of  George,  and 
fix  him  in  a  more  regular  and  steady  course 
of  his  school  exercises.  But  it  happened, 
unfortunately  for  the  lad,  that  his  contrivances 
to  slip  from  constraint,  so  obvious  to  all  besides, 
were  not  apparent  to  his  father.  One  reason 
of  this  might  be,  that,  on  all  such  occasions,  he 
would  be  diligently  employed  on  something 
of  apparent  utility;  for  George  was  very  in- 
genious, had  a  turn  for  mechanics,  and  was 
ever  engaged  on  some   curious  article,  which 


THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS.       133 

his  friends  were  ever  ready  to  commend  and 
admire 

"  By  the  time  that  he  quitted  school,  however, 
it  was  found  that  his  acquirements  were  by  no 
means  equal  to  what  his  father  and  friends 
expected  from  him.  Still  Mr.  Seldon  satisfied 
himself  with  the  idea  that  George  was  a  clever 
lad,  who  would  do  well  enough  in  the  world; 
for  he  could,  as  he  said,  turn  his  hand  to  any 
thing. 

"  Now,  a  certain  degree  of  talent  this  way 
may  be  useful,  but  it  seldom  happens  that  those 
whose  abilities  are  so  universal,  have  steadiness 
and  industry  enough  to  succeed  in  any  one 
pursuit ;   and  so  it  proved  with  George  Seldon. 

"  After  this  period,  my  friend  Howard  went 
to  study  for  the  law,  and  his  time  was  too  much 
occupied  to  admit  of  much  intercourse  with  his 
former  companions,  so  that  the  intimacy,  which 
was  merely  that  of  schoolboys,  ceased.  Of  the 
subsequent  history  of  Seldon,  1  know  few  par- 
ticulars; they  were  such  as  my  friend  learnt 
from  time  to  time,  but  they  were  sufficient  to 
prove  that  the  habits  of  the  boy  were  carried 
into  after-life 

"  Some  time  passed,  and  still  it  was  under- 
stood, that  young  Seldon  had  not  been  able  to 
settle  to  any  thing ;  for  whatever  was  proposed 
12 


134       THE  INDUSTRY  OF  IDLENESS. 

or  attempted,  he  found  that  application  was  re- 
quired. 

"  His  father  died  just  as  he  became  of  age, 
and  he,  being  now  his  own  master,  and  possessed 
of  some  property,  thought  he  had  time  for  every 
thing.  His  friends  endeavored  to  persuade  him 
to  fix  on  some  regular  employment ;  but  George's 
idle  propensities  could  never  be  controlled,  es- 
pecially when  necessity  did  not  urge  him  to 
industry. 

"  The  next  account  heard  of  him  was,  that 
he  was  gone  abroad,  and  for  a  considerable  time 
he  was  lost  sight  of. 

"  Several  years  afterwards,  my  friend  met 
him  in  London.  Seldon  was  well  dressed,  and 
in  high  spirits;  but  Howard  discovered,  to  his 
regret,  that  George  had  yet  the  world  to  begin. 
His  situation  abroad  had  been  tolerably  lu- 
crative; but  the  desire  of  change,  and  love 
of  liberty,  had  induced  him  to  give  it  up,  and 
try  his  fortune  in  his  native  land ;  and  he  was 
now  about  to  embark  his  remaining  property  in 
some  speculation,  which  promised  wonderful 
advantages. 

"  His  former  companion  tried  most  earnestly 
to  turn  him  from  his  purpose,  and  endeavored 
to  persuade  him  to  enter  into  some  less  hazard- 
ous concern  ;  but  it  was  to  no  purpose — George 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS-  135 

looked  only  to  the  chances  of  securing  a  for- 
tune without  any  comparative  trouble  to  himself. 
The  speculation  turned  out  as  many  of  them 
do,  and  Seldon  had  for  a  time  to  endure  the 
pressure  of  extreme  poverty,  for  he  had  now 
but  few  friends  left. 

"  After  a  while,  however,  those  who  still  felt 
interest  in  him,  made  another  effort  for  his 
advantage,  and  a  situation  was  procured,  which 
required  only  very  moderate  exertion,  but 
regular  attendance, — for  it  was  hoped  that  what 
he  had  experienced  would  render  him  steady  at 
least. 

"  Seldon  accepted  the  place  with  great  eager- 
ness, and  with  expressions  of  the  deepest 
gratitude,  but  lost  it  again  within  twelve 
months ;  not  from  any  lack  of  ability,  but  from 
want  of  punctuality.  His  friends  were  soon 
literally  tired  out;  for  certainly  there  is  no 
labor  so  entirely  hopeless,  as  the  endeavor  to 
help  those  who  will  not  help  themselves;  the 
habit  so  long  indulged  in,  is  not  to  be  eradica- 
ted, and  you  now  see  to  what  a  deplorable  state 
it  has  reduced  the  object  which  has  just  drawn 
your  attention." 

"It  has,  indeed,"  replied  Charles,  "but  still 
this  poor  old  man  has  been  only  his  own 
enemy." 


136  THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS. 

"  That,"  observed  Mr.  Morton,  "  is  a  very 
common  notion,  but  hardly  an  allowable  one, — 
for  we  are  so  linked  together  in  society,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  say  whether  those  whose  mis- 
conduct brings  misfortunes  on  themselves,  have 
not  also  been  the  means  of  injuring  others,  if 
merely  from  the  power  of  example.  Again,  the 
friends  who  had  vainly  exerted  themselves  for 
the  benefit  of  one  like  George  Seldon,  through 
the  disgust  they  might  feel  at  his  conduct, 
would  probably  be  deterred  from  assisting  a 
more  worthy  character.  Thus,  you  see,  it  is 
not  easy  to  prove  that  a  person  can  be  only  his 
own  enemy,  neither  would  it  justify  his  conduct 
if  it  even  were  so,  as  every  one  has  a  talent 
committed  to  his  charge,  of  which  a  '  strict 
account  will  be  required.' " 

"  Then,  father,  you  think  this  old  man  is  not 
worthy  of  compassion?" 

"  Far  from  that,  my  dear  boy ;  I  consider  him 
now  an  object  of  great  compassion.  Age,  im- 
propriety, and  poverty,  are  sore  evils,  when  they 
meet;  and  we  should  very  ill  act  our  parts  as 
Christians  and  erring  creatures,  did  we  regard 
only  his  former  misconduct,  and  not  his  present 
distress.  It  is  understood,  however,  that  he 
receives  from  an  unknown  hand,  sufficient  for 
the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  but  no  more,  as  it 


THE    INDUSTRY    OF    IDLENESS,  137 

would  hardly  be  right  to  bestow  equal  relief 
upon  one  like  Seldon,  as  on  a  person  who  had 
been  brought  to  the  same  condition  by  inevi- 
table misfortunes.  I  hope,  therefore,  my  dear 
Charles,  that  in  future,  whenever  you  feel  indis- 
posed to  your  employment,  and  know  at  the 
same  time  it  is  what  you  ought  to  do,  instead 
of  seeking  a  reason  for  avoiding  it,  you  will 
remember  the  example  of  poor  George  Seldon," 
12* 


13S 


THE     YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

BY    MRS.    HOFLAND. 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  go  to  America,  dear 
James,"  said  Mary  Simpson  to  her  husband, 
"  and  I  will  do  any  thing — this  very  morning  I 
will  go  and  work  in  the  fields,  for  I  can  get  the 
squire's  dog-keeper  to  watch  the  dear  child, 
and  you  shall  see  that  I  do  my  part  as  well  as 
any  one." 

James  sighed  as  he  consented ;  for  he  knew, 
though  Mary  was  willing  to  labor,  that  she  had 
not  strength  sufficient  for  that  which  was  re- 
quired,  and  that  she  had  abilities  for  superior 
employment.  He  carried  their  lovely  little  boy 
for  her  into  the  fields,  and  placed  him  under  the 
care  of  the  good-natured  dog-keeper,  who  was 
found  there  with  the  bailiff  of  the  estate,  and 
then  went  to  his  own  employment,  wondering, 
as  he  went,  at  Mary's  resistance  to  his  wishes ; 
which  were — that  he  should  follow  his  brother, 
who  hid  found,  in  the  back  settlements  of  the 
United  States,  a  comfortable  and  plentiful  sub- 
sistence for  himself  and  family,  whilst  he  toiled 


■TCurrn  ~w©wm&  nscuc&iEAsr 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  139 

in  vain  to  support  his  young  wife,  and  their  only 
child,  as  a  laborer  in  Sussex. 

"Whilst  Mary  exerted  herself,  yet  found  it  was 
to  little  purpose,  and  cast  many  an  anxious  look 
towards  her  sleeping  boy,  the  squire's  lady,  and 
a  female  friend,  took  a  turn  in  the  field ;  and  she 
heard  the  latter  remark,  "  that  it  was  now  be- 
come a  new  thing  to  her  to  see  women  work  out 
of  doors,  as  they  never  did  it  in  America." 

"Well,  that  is  a  good  thing,  at  least,"  said 
Mrs.  Curtis ;  "  but  I  suppose,  if  they  do  not 
work  so  hard  as  our  poor  women,  they  have 
other  evils  to  encounter,  which  are  still  worse  to 
bear,  Mrs.  Sandham?" 

"Indeed,  I  think  not;  for,  in  our  own  popu- 
lous country,  the  poor  work  hard,  and  are  poorly 
fed;  whereas,  there  food  is  cheap  and  plentiful, 
and  though  a  laborer's  house  is  formed  only 
of  logs,  it  is  as  good  as  his  neighbor's ;  so  that 
there  is  neither  pride  awakened,  nor  envy  ex- 
cited." 

"  You  have  lived  amongst  those  people,  my 
dear,  till  you  are  quite  fond  of  them ;  which,  I 
confess,  was  not  my  case  during  the  summer  I 
spent  with  you  at  Raleigh." 

"You  did  not  remain  long  enough;  you  saw 
the  husk,  but  not  the  kernel,  of  the  American 
character.     We  were  then    gay  English   girls, 


140  THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

used  only  to  the  polished  society  of  London, 
and  pained  by  a  removal  from  its  pleasures ;  our 
minds  were  not  sufficiently  informed  for  us  to 
estimate  the  virtues,  or  understand  the  situa- 
tion, of  those  strangers  by  whom  we  were  sur- 
rounded. You  returned,  under  the  impression 
that  the  men  were  rude,  the  women  frivolous — 
for  such  was,  at  that  time,  my  own ;  therefore,  I 
held  myself  aloof,  and  remained  an  alien  from 
my  neighbors.  But  when,  by  a  sudden  stroke,  I 
was  bereft  of  every  comfort,  and  became  a  young 
widow  with  three  helpless  children,  myself  as  help- 
less, (for  I  had  been  enervated  by  tenderness  not 
less  than  luxury,)  every  creature  around  me  step- 
ped forward  to  assist  me ;  and,  so  far  as  the  most 
active  benevolence,  the  most  delicate  attention, 
the  most  considerate  kindness,  could  relieve  and 
assist  an  afflicted  woman,  I  certainly  experienced 
from  the  inhabitants  of  Raleigh :  years  have 
passed — sorrows  have  subsided — I  am  again  in 
my  own  country,  and  with  my  own  kindred — but 
never  do  I  pass  a  day  without  recalling  gratefully 
the  generous  conduct  of  the  Americans  to  mind, 
and  never  shall  child  of  mine  cease  to  honor  the 
land  of  his  birth,  and  emulate  its  virtues."* 

*  The  Editor  repeats  here  the  words  of  a  valued  friend, 
who  resided  fourteen  years  in  Raleigh,  and  who  may  be 
recollected  by  many,  as  the  name  is  very  slightly  all e red. 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  141 

Every  word  uttered  by  this  lady,  in  the  warmth 
of  her  feelings,  thus  casually  awakened,  fell  dis- 
tinctly on  the  ear  of  Mary,  and  thence  reached 
her  very  heart.  She  blamed  her  foolish  fear  of 
the  voyage  and  the  distance,  began  to  believe 
that  good  people  might  be  found  every  where, 
and  think  it  very  natural  that  her  husband  should 
desire  to  follow  the  example  of  a  brother  to 
whom  emigration  had  answered  so  well ;  and,  on 
her  return  to  their  cottage,  so  great  a  change 
had  taken  place  in  her  sentiments  on  this  point, 
that,  from  this  time  forward,  the  only  anxiety 
of  James  was  how  to  execute  the  project  in 
question. 

To  save  money  appeared  to  be  almost  impossi- 
ble ;  yet  save  they  did — but  sickness  and  pros- 
trated strength  was  the  consequence,  and  this, 
of  course,  deferred  the  prosecution  of  their 
plan ;  and  although  the  good  brother  sent  them 
money  for  their  voyage,  he  earnestly  entreated 
them  to  delay  it  until  they  were  really  well ;  ob- 
serving, "  that  much  rough  work  must  be  gone 
through  by  every  settler,  and  it  would  never  do 
for  them  to  be  weakly  in  the  beginning." 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  happened  that 
little  James  was  become  nearly  seven  years  old, 
when  he  actually  arrived  at  New  York,  a  healthy, 
stout  little  fellow,  full  of  observation  and  intelli- 


142  THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

genee,  charmed  with  all  he  saw,  and  delighted 
to  exchange  the  monotony  of  a  sea  life  for  the 
moving  picture  of  the  Broadway,  or  the  shores 
of  the  Hudson.  Much  did  he  grieve,  and  his 
mother  no  less,  when  they  took  their  departure 
from  thence  ;  and,  after  passing  many  a  league 
of  land  uninhabited  by  man,  many  an  immense 
forest  and  wide-spreading  prairie,  they  at  length 
found  themselves  at  the  end  of  their  toilsome 
travels,  in  a  place  unlike  all  they  had  ever  seen 
before,  and  which,  at  the  first  glance,  appeared 
one  immense  garden  of  flowers,  but,  as  the  power 
of  observation  increased,  did  not  offer  any  thing 
which  denoted  either  a  village  or  a  city  to  their 
eyes,  which  now  eagerly  sought  for  an  abiding 
home,  after  their  long  travels. 

But  here,  in  a  newly-rising  settlement  near  to 
Lexington,  they  found  the  friend  and  brother  so 
earnestly  desired ;  and  they  were  received  with  a 
warmth  of  affection  and  a  profusion  of  hospitable 
attentions,  well  calculated  to  cheer  their  hearts 
and  awaken  their  hopes.  The  room  into  which 
they  were  conducted  was  much  larger  than  any 
to  which  they  had  been  accustomed,  and  although 
to  Mary's  eye  it  wanted  snugness,  and  in  some 
respects  neatness,  yet  the  air  of  abundance  pre- 
sented by  the  rafters,  on  which  hung  dried 
venison  hams,   and  bacon,    the   bright    utensils 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  143 

which  gleamed  over  the  fire-place,  the  handsome 
matron  who  gave  her  the  kiss  of  welcome,  and 
the  large  family  of  young  folks  who  received  her 
with  kindness  and  respect,  gave  her  a  sense  of 
comfort  and  plenty,  to  which  she  had  been  long 
a  stranger. 

Little  James  alone  was  discontented,  for,  in- 
deed, he  had  been  so  ever  since  they  left  New 
York,  which,  being  by  much  the  largest  and 
greatest  place  he  had  ever  beheld,  he  thought  it 
folly  to  quit.  His  new-found  cousins  were  all  so 
much  older,  that  he  could  not  see  one  who  would 
condescend  to  be  a  companion  to  a  boy  so  young 
as  himself;  and  their  manners  appeared  to  him 
so  uncouth,  that  he  could  not  desire  to  be  inti- 
mate with  any  of  them. 

Richard  Simpson  was  a  sensible  man,  as  well 
as  an  affectionate  brother ;  he  turned  round  in 
his  mind  who  would  best  suit  his  nephew  as  a 
playmate ;  and  the  next  day,  Frank  Atkins,  the 
son  of  an  industrious  Irishman,  who  was  em- 
ployed as  a  builder  in  Lexington,  entered  the 
house  at  dinner-time,  a*id  seated  himself  by  the 
newly-arrived  English  lad. 

"  Well,  here  you  are  at  last,  Jemmy,"  said 
he,  in  the  tone  of  an  old  acquaintance  ;  "  and 
is'nt  it  myself  that'll  shew  you  every  thing; 
and  tache  you  every  thing,  in  this  jewel  of  a 


144  THK    YOUKG    EMIGRANT 

country,  where  as  yet  1  guess  you  feel  quare 
enough." 

James  was  pleased  with  the  handsome,  open 
countenance  of  his  new  friend,  and  very  willing 
to  go  with  him  to  see  every  thing ;  but  the  word 
teach  stuck  a  little  on  his  stomach,  for  he  had 
found  that  half  of  his  grown-up  cousins  could 
not  read  or  write  so  well  as  himself,  and  as  to 
casting  up  a  sum  in  the  way  he  did  it,  that  was 
quite  out  of  the  question.  All  the  kind  of 
knowledge  his  father  could  give  to  one  so 
young,  had  been  communicated,  of  course :  he 
could  lead  the  plough,  handle  the  pitchfork, 
and  fodder  the  cattle — what  would  they  have 
more? 

But  James  soon  found,  that,  in  the  new  world, 
new  acquirements  were  called  for  ;  and  happily 
for  him,  new  rewards  granted.  His  abilities  of 
every  kind  were  soon  called  into  action,  whilst 
his  parents  took  care  that  he  persevered  and  im- 
proved in  the  exercise  of  those  acquisitions  he 
had  made  in  England,  and  which  they  had  wisely- 
procured  him,  under  the  idea  that  however  provi- 
dent the  government  might  be,  a  thinly-scattered 
population,  in  a  new  country,  must  be  long  ere 
it  could  avail  itse.!f  of  the  means  of  instruc- 
tion. 

If  ever  "knowledge   is  power,"  it  must  be  so 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  145 

to  those  who  are  situated  like  our  travellers; 
and,  although  they,  like  those  around  them,  first 
sought  a  grant  of  land  on  which  James  Simpson 
might  labor,  the  talents  of  his  wife,  who  was  not 
only  an  excellent  general  sempstress,  but  capable 
of  tailors'  work,  was  soon  put  in  requisition, 
and  so  liberally  rewarded,  as  materially  to  assist 
her  husband  in  the  stocking  of  his  farm.  James, 
cheered  with  the  magnificent  trees,  became, 
through  his  young  friend's  persuasion,  expert  at 
cabinet-work,  to  which  Frank  had  been  taught 
to  apply,  and  he  rewarded  the  good-natured 
boy's  instruction  by  teaching  him  to  write,  and 
lending  him  all  the  books  he  had;  and  their 
mutual  power  of  each  assisting  the  other,  natu- 
rally increased  their  affection,  and  stimulated 
their  exertions.  James  was  quiet  and  steady — 
Frank,  gay  and  noisy ;  yet  they  were  always 
happy  when  together. 

Yet  Frank  did  not  solely  engross  the  affec- 
tions of  James,  for  within  the  three  following 
years  two  little  sisters  were  born,  whom  he  loved 
very  dearly,  and  promised  his  mother  to  educate 
himself,  so  far  as  he  was  able.  Surrounded  as 
they  were  by  people  of  various  countries  and 
different  habits,  it  struck  the  boy  that  it  was  de- 
sirable, that  all  which  might  be  deemed  good 
in  each,  ought  to  be  combined  in  the  conduct 
13 


146  THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

of  such  as  were  actually  born  in  the  cout.ry;  but 
above  all,  he  wished  to  inculcate  the  necessity 
for  obeying  their  parents,  and,  to  a  certain  degree, 
looking  up  to  himself  as  an  elder  brother  capable 
of  guiding  them. 

"  You  seem  mighty  particular,"  said  Frank, 
"with  them  little  things;  I  dare  say  they  think 
you  a  regular  plague;  I  warrant  they  will  get 
along  well  enough  without  doing  as  they  are 
bid ;  it  is  what  nobody  in  this  country  thinks 
necessary,  any  how." 

"  That  is  very  true,  more  the  pity — but,  do  you 
know,  Frank,  I  am  quite  sure  both  the  country 
and  the  children  would  be  much  better  if  they 
did.  Here,  we  have  fine  fruits,  beautiful  flow- 
ers, and  plentiful  crops — we  are  never  nipped 
with  cold,  as  we  were  in  the  old  country — and 
we  have  good  meat  whenever  we  want  it ;  but  I 
cannot  find  a  boy  to  play  with,  except  yourself, 
that  I  can  like,  for  that  very  reason.  They 
never  obey  their  parents,  and  they  laugh  at  me 
for  doing  it ;  and  they  call  their  impudence  and 
wickedness,  freedom  and  liberty,  and  such  like  ; 
now  I  mean  cto  honor  my  father  and  mother, 
that  I  may  live  long  in  the  land'  to  which  God 
hath  brought  us,  and  wish  my  little  sisters  to 
follow  my  example." 

"  You  are  always  right,  James ;  so  I  mean  to 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  147 

follow  it  also,  and  not  only  take  my  father's 
advice  for  the  love  I  have  for  him,  but  also  for 
the  reverence  I  owe  him ;  and  many  is  the 
acquaintance  I  have  that  shall  not  be  wanting 
my  advice  in  that  same  matter — who  knows  the 
good  we  may  do  on  the  banks  of  the  Elkhorn, 
my  boy  V 

And  great  indeed  was  the  good  produced  by 
their  example,  so  that  the  little  spot  where  they 
resided  was  spoken  of  at  Lexington  as  the  most 
civilized  spot  in  Kentucky  ;  and  some  gentle- 
men of  enlightened  minds,  who  anxiously  wished 
to  benefit  the  country,  sought  to  stimulate  the 
efforts  and  reward  the  exertions  of  our  young 
emigrant.  For  this  purpose,  they  placed  him  in 
a  school  which  would  employ  a  certain  portion 
of  his  time,  yet  leave  him  the  power  of  pursuing 
his  business  in  another.  They  presented  him 
with  useful  books  and  valuable  instruments,  and 
increased  the  grant  of  land  made  to  his  father. 
These  acquisitions  did  not  in  the  least  render 
him  arrogant  or  presuming ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
considered  that,  as  his  best  quality  had  been 
humble  attention  to  his  dear  parents  in  infancy, 
affectionate  attention  would  become  him  as  he 
advanced  towards  manhood.  Indeed,  the  older 
and  wiser  he  grew,  the  more  manfully  did  he 
comprehend  the  value  of  their  conduct  to  him, 


143  THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

in  having,  even  in  the  days  of  poverty  and 
trouble,  exacted  from  him  implicit  obedience  to 
their  dictates,  (which  was  coupled  with  the  ten- 
derest  love,  for  he  was  then  their  all,)  since  it 
was  not  less  the  source  of  his  worldly  prosperity 
than  his  happiness.  In  a  few  years,  the  good 
uncle  who  mad  invited  them  over,  beheld  his 
poor  brother  a  more  nourishing  man  than  he 
had  ever  been,  and  derived  his  greatest  happiness 
from  witnessing  theirs — for  his  own  family,  self- 
willed  and  rude,  had  gone  out  from  him  on 
every  side,  with  little  regard  to  the  feelings  of 
him  who  had  labored  for  them  so  affectionately 
But  as  these  persons  themselves  settled  in  life 
and  became  parents,  their  early  affectioDS  were 
recalled;  they  saw  the  value  of  their  young 
cousin's  example  and  instructions,  and  were 
eager  to  place  their  children  under  his  tutelage 
The  lately  scattered  dwellings  now  became  a 
wide-spreading  village,  in  which  every  species  of 
industry  and  ingenuity  was  prosecuted.  Some 
cultivated  the  earth,  which  every  where  rewarded 
them  with  abundance ;  some  felled  the  noble 
trees  to  clear  the  ground,  and  then  formed  them 
into  every  species  of  household  furniture  and 
utensils,  or  constructed  vessels  in  which  they 
could  navigate  the  Ohio,  or  reach  the  Missis- 
sippi, for  purposes  of  commerce.     They  built  a 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  149 

church,  in  which  to  worship  the  God  who  had 
thus  spread  for  them  "  a  table  in  the  wilderness," 
and  projected  numerous  institutions  which  time 
alone  was  wanting  to  carry  into  full  effect. 
They  were  a  small,  but  sacred  band  of  relations, 
who  had  married  women  of  various  countries, 
whom  they  treated  with  a  kindness  and  courtesy 
that  elicited  all  their  virtues,  so  that  in  this  set- 
tlement was  united  the  warm-hearted  hospitality 
of  the  Irish  character,  the  prudence  and  fore- 
sight of  the  Scottish,  the  energy,  industry  and 
perseverance  of  the  English,  with  the  deter- 
mined exertion,  and  patient  resolution,  which 
springs  from  their  union,  and  form  the  true  in- 
gredients of  the  enterprising  American. 

Such  was  this  rising  settlement,  when  a  worthy 
descendant  of  the  excellent  Colonel  Boone  made 
an  expedition  to  that  country,  which  his  renown- 
ed ancestor  had  known  as  the  "  Bloody  Grounds," 
and  where  he  had  dwelt  in  all  the  desolation  of 
solitude,  the  dread  of  Indian  irruption,  and  that 
distressing  sensation  of  having  placed  a  great 
gulf  between  himself  and  his  fellow-men,  which 
must  create  in  the  bravest  minds  a  sense  of  fear 
and  degradation.  His  descendant  could  not 
forbear  to  retrace  the  feelings  of  one  he  had 
been  ia  ught  to  love  and  honor  :  as  he  reentered 
13* 


150  THE    YOuNG    EMIGRANT. 

the  scene  of  his  labors,  what  then  was  his  aston- 
ishment to  find 

"  That  Paradise  was  opened  in  the  wild !  " 

for  all  around  him  was  nourishing  and  luxuriant 
as  the  garden  of  Eden.  Proceeding  to  a  closer 
investigation,  he  found  that  the  human  beings 
dwelling  there  opened  not  less  agreeably  on  his 
contemplation,  than  the  flowery  banks  of  the 
river,  and  the  towering  forest  behind  them. 
Never  had  he  beheld  such  noble-looking,  athletic 
men,  such  lovely,  active  women,  and  such  intelli- 
gent, good-natured  children. 

"Ah!"  cried  he,  "  how  different  must  these 
people  be  to  the  race  I  have  heard  described,  as 
'  half  horse,  half  alligator,'  '  the  snags  of  Ken- 
tucky ! '  These  are  men  in  the  highest  sense  of  the 
word — men,  free,  but  not  savage — men,  brave, 
but  not  overbearing — men,  prudent,  but  not 
mean — in  short,  they  are  Christian  men ;  dutiful 
to  their  parents,  kind  to  their  neighbors,  com- 
passionate to  the  suffering,  and  willing  to  assist 
everyone.  They  are  solicitous  to  obtain  knowl- 
edge, and  wise  in  applying  it  to  every  good  and 
useful  purpose." 

And  no  sooner  did  this  interesting  body  of 
inhabitants  know  that  the  representative  of  their 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  151 

most  efficient  founder  was  come  amongst  them, 
desirous  of  witnessing  their  progress  and  sharing 
in  their  gratitude  and  joy,  than  they  hastened 
one  and  all  to  welcome  him,  the  oldest  inhab- 
itants leading  the  procession,  and  the  young 
ones  following;  with  flowers  and  branches  in  their 
hands,  indicative  of  the  products  of  the  land, 
where  they  were  most  valuable.  It  was  a  sim- 
ple and  hasty  tribute  of  good  will,  but  one 
which  kings  might  have  envied,  for  it  was  "  the 
homage  of  the  heart;"  nevertheless  it  was  one 
which  would  never  have  been  tendered  if  a 
civilized  and  polished  mind  had  not  been  in- 
culcated along  with  an  industrious  and  manly 
spirit. 

Of  this,  their  present  visitant  was  fully  sensi- 
ble, for  he  knew  the  nature  of  mankind,  and 
how  much  the  qualities  of  human  beings  depend 
on  human  culture.  As  his  quick  eye  glanced 
round,  admiringly,  on  the  gallant  forms  of  the 
young  men,  the  fine  countenances  of  their  fa- 
thers, the  modest  dignity  of  their  matrons,  and 
the  innocent  sprightliness  of  the  maidens,  his 
eyes  glistened  with  tears  of  delight,  and  he  ex- 
claimed, 

"  This  is  far  beyond  my  hopes ;  who  can  have 
made  ye  what  ye  are?" 

"One  emigrant — one  little  emigrant,"  cried 


152      ,  THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT. 

the  old  man  at  their  head.  "  He  taught  our 
children  to  be  dutiful  and  obedient,  and  set 
them  the  example.  From  this  course,  the  de- 
gree of  wisdom  we  had  gained  became  of  use  to 
them,  and  the  improvement  they  made  upon  our 
knowledge  rendered  of  tenfold  value ;  in  short, 
sir,  we  all  pulled  together,  both  in  our  families 
and  as  a  community.  In  helping  each  other,  we 
helped  ourselves ;  and  so,  by  degrees,  huts  be- 
came houses — a  village  a  town — and  a  rock  a 
church.  Planks  have  grown  into  ships — sheep- 
skins into  good  coats — and  food  scarcely  fit  for 
human  beings  into  comparative  dainties.  He 
said  it  would  be  so,  and  he  proved  a  true 
prophet." 

"  And  has  he  left  you,  after  effecting  so 
much  1 " 

"  Oh,  no ;  that  is  his  house,  with  the  large 
garden  and  the  curious  trees.  He  never  leaves 
us  willingly — but  he  could  not  remain  always  a 
boy  teaching  the  little  ones;  so  now  he  is  a  man, 
and  we  have  the  honor  to  send  him  to  congress 
as  our  representative,  where  he  speaks  for  our 
benefit,  and  is  listened  to  by  every  body.  May- 
hap you  have  heard  of  James  Simpson,  even 
there  1" 

"  Indeed,  I  have :  for  he  is  my  dear  and 
esteemed  friend,   and  was,   in  fact,  the  person 


THE    YOUNG    EMIGRANT.  153 

who  induced  me  to  take  this  journey,  though  he 
did  it  indirectly.  You  have  a  right  to  be  proud 
of  him,  for  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  men  in 
America." 

"  I  believe  it,  I  believe  it,"  replied  the  old  man  : 
"  but  in  these  parts  we  like  merely  to  remember 
nim  as  one  of  the  best ;  and,  if  he  lived  to  be- 
come the  president  himself,  we  should  still  love 
him  best  in  his  young  days,  and  call  him  our 
own  dear  ( young  emigrant.' " 


154 


THE    YOUJNG    TRAVELLER 

A    TALE    IN    VERSE. 

BY   MISS    M.   A.    BROWNE. 

"  Scorn  not  the  seeds  of  knowledge, 

However  small  they  be ; 
In  future  time,  they  may  grow  to  the  prime 

Of  a  goodly,  fruitful  tree." 

Thus  said  young  Albert's  mother, 

As  she  held  his  youthful  hand, 
And  they  wandered  through  the  garden's  walk, 

By  summer  breezes  fanned. 

Tney  were  talking  of  the  flowers, 

Of  their  beauty  and  perfume, 
And  plants,  and  fruits,  and  many  herbs, 

Howr  rich  in  scent  and  bloom. 

She  was  telling  him  of  marvels, 

In  bud,  and  leaf,  and  hue, 
And  how  almighty  wisdom  formed 

Some  plants  for  healing  too. 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER.  155 

He  gathered  many  blossoms, 

And  these  in-doors  he  took, 
And  then  he  read  their  histories, 

In  a  little  pleasant  book. 

He  was  always  fond  of  knowledge ; 

He  would  sit  for  hours  and  hours 
To  read  of  countries  far  away, 

And  of  stars,  and  trees,  and  flowers 

His  mind  was  like  a  garner, 

Filled  up  with  precious  grain ; 
And  nothing  his  dear  mother  taught, 

He  slighted  as  in  vain. 

His  merry  little  sister 

Would  leave  her  play  to  be 
A  happy,  quiet  listener, 

At  her  dear  brother's  knee, 

Now  his  uncle  had  fair  vessels, 
And  he  meant  a  voyage  to  make, 

And  offered  in  his  gallant  ship 
The  little  boy  to  take. 

His  mother  grieved  and  sorrowed, 
But  she  knew  'twas  for  his  good, 

And  consented  he  should  leave  his  home, 
To  cross  the  stormy  flood. 


156  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

And  his  sister  wept,  but  smiled  again, 

When  he  the  tidings  told, 
How  soon  he  might  return  again, 

And  bring  her  gems  and  gold. 

On  went  the  ship — his  native  shores 

Had  faded  from  his  sight  ; 
And  Albert  walked  the  unsteady  deck, 

And  watched  the  billows  white. 

He  struggled  to  be  master 

Of  the  feelings  that  would  rise, 

And  he  looked  around,  and  wiped  the  tears 
That  clouded  his  young  eyes. 

And  day  by  day  more  cheerful 
He  grew,  and  soon  would  learn 

The  names  of  every  rope  and  spar 
In  the  ship,  from  stem  to  stern. 

He  loved  to  watch  the  sun  rise 
Through  the  gray  mist  of  morn ; 

Or  to  be  across  the  golden  track 
Of  the  naming  moonlight  borne. 

And  he  would  watch  the  dolphin 
In  the  noontide  sunbeams  play; 

And  often  read  his  useful  books 
To  pass  the  time  away. 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

And  ever,  night  and  morning, 

Ere  on  deck  his  foot  might  tread, 

He  knelt  within  the  cabip  small 
And  his  prayers  to  Goo.  ne  sau* 

Thus  weeks  passed  on,  and  only 

Another  was  to  come, 
When  they  reckoned  for  the  steady  land 

To  quit  the  dancing  foam. 

Twas  night,  and  Albert  sleeping 

Upon  his  couch  was  laid, 
And  his  quiet  spirit,  happy  dream* 

Within  its  temple  made. 

He  was  dreaming  of  his  garden 

In  his  own  beloved  isle ; 
He  saw  his  sister's  laughing  eyes. 

And  his  mother's  loving  smile. 

He  hears  a  sudden  rushing 

In  the  ancient  cedar-trees ; 
'Tis  louder — strange — that  rushing  is 

Unlike  the  evening  breeze. 

He  starts — his  dream  is  over ; 

He's  in  the  ship  again, 
And  the  rushing  sound  is  the  angry  din 

Of  the  wild,  remorseless  main. 
14 


157 


158  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

Loud  footsteps  trample  o'er  him 

Loud  voices  rudely  call, 
And  the  captain  through  his  trumoet  sena? 

His  mandates  over  all 

He's  on  the  deck ;  oh !  never 

A  scene  so  full  of  awe, 
May  you,  dear  children,  e'er  behold, 

As  that  young  Albert  saw. 

Breakers  ahead — the  lightning 
Streaming  through  rain  and  rack 

Amid  the  deep  and  pitchy  night, 
Covering  the  waters  black. 

One  struggling,  staggering  motion, 

One  sudden,  jarring  shock, 
And  the  quivering  vessel  rudely  feL 

Upon  the  sunken  rock. 


159 


PART    SECOND. 

He  wakes — his  eyes  ai>e  aching, 
And  his  head  in  throbbing  pain; 

For  the  hot  beamings  of  the  sun 
Are  scorching  to  his  brain. 

His  fingers  still  are  grasping, 

With  a  strange  strength,  the  oar, 

To  which  he  clung  in  his  agony, 
And  floated  to  the  shore. 

Then  his  chill  limbs  he  stretches, 

And  rises  up  to  stand, 
But  sinks  upon  the  shingly  beach, 

And  gazes  towards  the  land. 

There's  a  soft  breeze  floating  o'er  him, 
Full  of  all  wild  flowers'  balm — 

There's  a  shadowy  grove  of  waving  trees. 
The  green  and  graceful  palm. 

He  turned  towards  the  ocean — 
It  was  heaving  bright  and  free, 

Not  a  trace  of  storm  upon  its  breast, 
Not  a  cloud  to  dim  its  glee 


160  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER 

But  here  and  there  a  splinter 
From  the  gallant  vessel's  mast, 

And  a  fragment  of  a  ragged  sail, 
Told  what  a  scene  had  passed. 

Poor  Albert  looked  around  him, 
And  many  thoughts  would  pass 

On  his  full  heart ;  but  the  leading  one 
Was  that  of  thankfulness. 

Next  came  the  gush  of  sorrow, 
For  those  who  perished  then  ; 

Till  another  gush  of  thankfulness 
Came  o'er  his  heart  again. 

And  now  he  hoped  some  straggler, 
Like  him,  his  life  might  save, 

And  at  farther  distance  up  the  coast 
Be  thrown  by  the  raging  wave. 

In  this  fond  hope  he  wandered 

About  till  set  of  sun, 
But  of  all  the  vessel's  freight  and  crew 

Save  him,  remained  not  one. 

Then  weary  towards  the  palm-trees 
He  dragged  each  trembling  limb, 

And  then  laid  down,  and  tried  to  sav 
A  little  prayer  and  hymn. 


THE    YOUNG   TRAVELLER.  161 

The  sun  went  down — the  lucid  light 

Of  the  round  moon  was  seen, 
Struggling  betwixt  the  palm-tree  stems 

Of  that  rich  emerald  green. 

The  weak  boy,  faint  and  hungry, 

Lay  on  the  long,  thick  grass ; 
And  his  heart  beat  quicker,  for  he  thought 

He  heard  a  footstep  pass. 

Shapes  of  ten  thousand  terrors 

Came  rushing  o'er  his  brain  ; 
He  thought  of  beasts  and  savage  men — 

Then  came  the  step  again. 

On  hands  and  knees,  half  breathless. 

He  crept  beneath  the  shade, 
And  soon  he  saw  the  being,  who 

The  footstep  sound  had  made. 

Betwixt  two  hillocks,  covered 

With  shrubs,  the  moonlight  fell, 
As  clear  as  liquid  crystal  white, 

Upon  a  little  dell. 

And  in  that  quiet,  silent  glade, 

A  youthful  figure  stood; 
A  boy  of  fourteen  years  or  more, 

A  nursling  of  the  wood. 
14* 


162  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

His  arms  were  closely  folded. 
And  his  eyes  were  raised  above, 

As  if  he  watched  the  stars  and  moon 
Almost  with  looks  of  love. 

The  night-wind  swept  his  mantle, 
And  his  swart  shoulders  bare, 

And  often  bowed  the  eagle  plume 
In  his  black,  curling  hair. 

He  looked  towards  the  starry  sky, 
And  murmuring  sounds  did  come 

From  his  opening  lips,  as  indistinct 
As  a  city's  distant  hum. 

But  Albert  knew  what  feelings 
Were  in  that  dusky  breast, 

And  he  saw  the  power  of  nature  there 
By  nature's  God  expressed. 

He  felt  as  if  a  brother 

Stood  near  to  give  him  aid ; 

And  he  crept  into  the  open  light 
That  filled  the  lonely  glade. 

His  hands  clasped  on  his  forehead. 

He  sunk  upon  his  knee, 
For  so,  lie  had  read,  greet  savage  men 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea. 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER  163 

He  pointed  to  the  sea-beach, 

And  to  his  tattered  dress ; 
And  by  many  signs  he  told  his  tale 

Of  shipwreck  and  distress. 

The  dark  boy  heard  him  calmly, 

Then  kindly  took  his  hand 
In  sign  of  peace,  and  pointed  straight 

Towards  the  rocky  strand ; 

Then  beckoned  him  to  follow, 

And  slowly  led  the  way 
To  a  cavern  in  a  high  gray  rock 

That  rose  beside  the  bay. 

Then  he  brought  soft  grass  and  rushes. 

And  spread  a  lonely  couch ; 
Giving  signs  that  he  was  free  from  harm 

By  many  a  glance  and  touch. 

Then  he  left  him,  but  ere  midnight 
Came  back  and  brought  him  food, 

With  a  mantle  of  soft  leopard  skins, 
And  a  torch  of  fragrant  wood. 

Poor  Albert  slept,  o'erwearied 

Amidst  his  heavy  care  ; 
But  his  dreams  were  sweet,  and  he  knew  and  felt 

That  God  was  present  there.. 


164  THE    YOUNG   TRAVELLER. 

Days  passed,  but  every  morning 

The  Indian  boy  siill  came, 
And  brought  him  fruits,  and  soon  he  learnt 

To  call  him  by  his  name. 

And  word  by  word  did  the  lonely  boy 
Glean  of  the  Indian's  tongue ; 

And  learnt  Mater's  dread  sire  was  chief, 
His  darkling  tribe  among. 

That  the  youth  dared  not  confess 

He  had  one  within  the  cave, 
For  the  father  was  stern,  and  ruthless  too, 

As  the  tempest  'neath  the  wave. 

So  by  day  was  Albert  closely  hid, 

And  by  night  with  the  savage  walked, 

And  together  of  the  scenes  around 
In  broken  words  they  talked. 

Mater  would  gladly  lend  his  ear 

To  all  that  Albert  said — 
The  tales  he  told,  the  truths  he  spoke 

From  the  books  which  he  had  read. 

And  when  they  sate  them  down  to  rest, 

By  rock  and  waterfall, 
He  would  try  to  teach  his  Indian  friend 

Of  Him  who  made  us  all. 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER.  i65 

Methmks  it  were  a  moving  sight, 

To  watch  that  earnest  pair  ; 
Talking  beneath  the  arching  trees, 

Or  in  the  moonlight  fair. 

And  see  that  swarthy,  graceful  youth, 

Now  smiling  as  with  joy, 
Now  serious,  as  he  bent  his  head 

To  that  fair  shipwrecked  boy. 

But  the  happiest  scene,  dear  children. 

Was  when,  on  the  green  sod, 
They,  hand  in  hand,  for  the  first  time  knelt 

To  pray  to  the  Christian's  God. 

Then  might  you  think  an  angel 

Had  come  through  the  cloudless  an% 

To  aid  the  wild  and  struggling  heart. 
In  pouring  forth  a  prayer. 

For  thus  the  holy  Savior, 

Himself  so  meek  and  mild, 
Had  chosen  for  his  messenger 

A  little,  simple  child. 


166 


PART    THIRD. 

Now  was  it  first  that  Albert 

The  worth  of  knowledge  knew ; 

But  yet  he  had  not  fully  proved 
The  wonders  it  can  do. 

One  day  his  heart  was  heavy, 
And  his  cheek  with  fever  red. 

And  scarcely  could  he  raise  his  frame 
From  his  lone,  grassy  bed. 

But  in  the  wood  was  growing 

A  plant  of  healing  power, 
This  from  his  mother  had  he  learnt 

When  he  admired  the  flower. 

He  asked  Mater  to  fetch  it, 
And  with  water  from  the  brook 

A  medicine  of  the  herb  he  made, 
And  the  cooling  potion  took. 

And  soon  he  proved  its  virtue, 
For  it  eased  his  weary  pain  ; 

And  the  aching  left  his  youthful  limbs, 
And  the  scorching  heat  his  brain, 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER  167 

And  soon  Mater's  fierce  father 

By  the  same  was  stricken  sore  ; 
He  lay  in  his  tent,  and  all  believed 

That  he  thence  would  rise  no  more 

Then  poor  Mater,  in  sorrow, 

Came  straight  to  Albert's  cave, 
And  begged  that  he  would  venture  thence 

His  father's  life  to  save. 

Then  down  the  trembling  stranger  knelt, 

And  he  prayed  to  God  to  keep 
His  life  amid  that  barbarous  tribe, 

As  on  the  raging  deep. 

And  then  he  rose  and  followed  quick 

His  guide,  and  soon  they  stood 
Without  the  farthest  boundary 

Of  that  tall,  waving  wood. 

Then  told  Mater  the  story 

Unto  his  brethren  wild, 
Of  how  he  found,  and  hid,  and  fed, 

That  pale  and  fearful  child. 

Then  spoke  a  plumed  warrior, 

A  noble  in  degree — 
"  Let  the  young  pale-face  save  the  chiel. 

And  he  unharmed  shall  be. 


I6S  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

"  But  if  he  fail,  most  certainly 
As  o'er  us  spreads  the  sky, 

By  our  great  law  of  life  for  life, 
The  traitorous  youth  must  die." 

God  surely  was  with  Albert  then — 
His  medicine  took  the  chief, 

And  found,  as  he  had  found  before, 
A  swift  and  full  relief. 

Then  pearls  and  gems  were  showered 

Upon  the  stranger  boy, 
And  he  was  led  to  their  finest  hut, 

With  many  a  shout  of  joy. 


169 


PART    FOURTH. 

Perhaps  you  think,  my  dear  young  friends, 

This  was  a  happy  fate  ; 
He  had  wealth,  and  nought  on  earth  to  do. 

With  slaves  on  his  will  to  wait. 

But,  oh !  he  of  his  mother  thought, 
And  her  dear  whitewashed  cot, 

And  his  sickening  spirit  loathed  the  view 
Of  his  sad  and  distant  lot. 

And  though  he  loved  the  kind  Mater, 

Who  was  a  friend  indeed, 
Yet,  in  trusting  him,  he  knew  too  well, 

He  leaned  on  a  broken  reed. 

Once  in  the  quiet  midnight, 

As  on  his  bed  he  lay, 
And  the  tears  that  gathered  in  his  eyes, 

Had  driven  his  sleep  away, — 

Sudden  he  heard  a  footstep  near, 
And  on  hastening  forth  did  see, 

And  the  gentle  voice  of  Mater  said, 
"  Arise  and  come  with  me." 


170  THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER. 

He  rose,  and  through  the  forest  wide 

The  Indian  led  the  way ; 
And  down  beside  the  rocky  cave, 

And  towards  the  rocky  bay ; 

Then  paused,  and  fondly  clasping 
Young  Albert's  hand,  thus  spoke  . 

"  Friend,  thy  young  heart  is  withering^ 
Like  a  lightning-blighted  oak. 

"  Dear  Albert,  more  than  brother 

Thou  art  to  Mater's  heart ; 
But  the  home  thou  lov'st  is  far  away, — 

Be  happy  then, — depart ! " 

He  pointed  to  the  ocean — 

What  greetest  Albert's  sight ! — 

A  gallant  ship,  with  all  her  sails 
In  the  moonbeams  glancing  white. 

Then  Mater  spake,  "  I  wandered 

In  the  wood  at  set  of  sun, 
And  pealing  through  the  echoing  rocks 

I  heard  a  single  gun. 

"  Oft  vessels  from  your  country  come, 

And  anchor  in  this  bay, 
And  our  small  tribe  all  hide  themselves. 

Whilst  those  white  strangers  stay. 


THE    YOUNG    TRAVELLER,  ]71 

."  But  here  to-morrow  morning 

For  water  will  they  come, 
And  then  you  may  return  with  them 

Unto  your  distant  home. 

"Arid  now  farewell,  dear  brother; 

And  may  that  God  above, 
Whom  you  have  taught  me  to  adore, 

Look  on  you  still  in  love. 

"  When  in  your  far  off  country, 

Midst  friends  and  kindred  true, 
Think  sometimes  on  our  forest  walk,«, 

And  all  you  taught  Mattoo." 

He  turned,  and  swiftly  glided 

In  the  shadow  of  the  trees ; 
And  nought  was  heard,  but  the  fretting  tide, 

Nor  felt,  but  the  freshening  breeze. 

Now  need  I  tell  you,  children, 
That  this  vessel's  crew  did  land, 

And  that  they  took  our  shipwrecked  boy 
From  that  hot  and  sickly  strand  1 

And  of  his  mother's  happiness, 

Or  his  sister's,  need  I  tell  1 
Ye  who  have  mothers  whom  ye  love, 

Can  paint  that  meeting  well 


172  THE    YOUNG   TRAVELLER 

Thus  ends  the  tale — yet  hearken,— 
How  came  these  things  to  pass  ? 

Because  no  careless,  idle  boy, 
Our  little  Albert  was. 

It  was  his  gathered  wisdom, 

That  o'er  peril,  victory  won ; 
Therefore  methinks  'tis  fit  my  tale 

Should  end  as  it  begun. 

Scorn  not  the  seeas  of  knowledge, 

However  smail  they  be ; 
In  future  time,  they  may  grow  to  the  prime 

Of  a  goodly,  fruitful  tree 


HENRIETTA, 

My  youngest  and  my  loveliest ! — my  darling  little 

one, 
E'en  to  a  stranger's  eye  thy  face  is  fair  to  look 

upon ; 
With  thy  bright  locks,  thy  snowy  brow,  thine 

eyes  so  clearly  blue, 
And  thy  soft  velvet  lip  that  seems  a  rosebud 

moist  with  dew. 

But  to  a  mother's  heart  how  dear  is  every  childish 

grace  ! 
How  do  I  love  the  opening  gems  of  loveliness  to 

trace  ; 
To  hear  thee  lisp  each  new-found  word,  or  gaze, 

with  sweet  surprise, 
On  all  the  wonders  that  each  day  discovers  to 

thine  eyes ! 

Yet  sweeter  to  a  mother's  hope,  my  little  one,  to 

see 
That  look  of  gentle  gravity  steal  o'er  thy  face  of 

glee; 

15* 


174  HENRIETTA. 

It  tells  the  hidden  wealth  o'er  which  thy  young 

glad  thoughts  now  flow, 

As  quiet  streams  reveal  how  deep  their  current 

runs  below. 

C.  Embury. 


175 


A  SHORT  ACCOUNT  OF  A  VISIT 


PAID 


TO    THE    REV.    MR.    JUDSON, 

BY  MISS   JANE    ROBERTS, 
In  the  year  1830. 

Being  unexpectedly  in  Rangoon,  in  the 
autumn  of  1830,  and  hearing  that  the  justly 
celebrated  American  missionary,  good  Mr.  Jud- 
son,  was  still  there,  with  indefatigable  zeal  pros- 
ecuting his  "  labor  of  love "  in  the  conversion 
of  the  Burmese,  I  was  extremely  anxious  to  see 
him ;  and  having  informed  ourselves  that  a  visit 
from  English  travellers  would  not  be  deemed  a 
disagreeable  intrusion,  the  captain,  his  wife,  and 
myself,  immediately  proceeded  to  Mr.  Judson's 
house. 

It  was  a  Burman  habitation,  to  which  we  had 
to  ascend  by  a  ladder,  and  we  entered  a  large, 
low  room,  through  a  space  like  a  trap-door.  The 
beams  of  the  roof  were  uncovered,  and  the 
window-frames  were  open,  after  the  fashion  of 


176  MR.    JUDSON, 

Burman  houses.  The  furniture  consisted  of  a 
table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  few  stools, 
and  a  desk,  with  writings  and  books,  neatly 
arranged  on  one  side. 

We  were  soon  seated,  and  were  most  anxious 
to  hear  all  that  the  good  man  had  to  say,  who, 
in  a  resigned  tone,  spoke  of  his  departed  wife, 
in  a  manner  which  plainly  showed  he  had  set  his 
affection  "  where  alone  true  joys  can  be  found." 
He  dwelt  with  much  pleasure  on  the  translation 
of  the  Bible  into  the  Burman  language.  He  had 
completed  the  New,  and  was  then  got  as  far  as 
the  Psalms  in  the  Old  Testament,  which  having 
finished,  he  said,  "he  trusted  it  would  be  the 
will  of  his  heavenly  Father  to  call  him  to  his 
everlasting  home." 

Of  the  conversions  going  on  amongst  the  Bur- 
mese, he  spoke  with  certainty ;  not  doubting, 
that,  when  the  flame  of  Christianity  did  burst 
forth,  it  would  surprise  even  him  by  its  extent 
and  brilliancy.  As  we  were  thus  conversing, 
the  bats,  which  frequent  the  houses  at  Rangoon, 
began  to  take  their  evening  round,  and  whirled 
closer  and  closer,  till  they  came  in  almost  dis- 
agreeable contact  with  our  heads ;  and  the  flap 
of  the  heavy  wings  so  near  us  interrupting  the 
conversation,  we  at  length  reluctantly  took  our 
leave  and  departed. 


MR.    JUDSON.  177 

"  And  this,"  thought  I,  as  I  descended  the 
dark  ladder,  "  is  the  solitary  abode  of  Judson, 
whom  after-ages  shall  designate,  most  justly,  the 
great  and  the  good.  It  is  the  abode  of  one  of 
whom  *  the  world  is  not  worthy ' — of  one  who 
has  been  imprisoned,  chained,  and  starved,  and 
yet  who  dares  still  to  prosecute  his  work,  in  the 
midst  of  the  people  who  have  thus  treated  him, 
America  may  indeed  be  proud  of  having  given 
birth  to  so  excellent  and  admirable  a  man,  who, 
amidst  the  trials,  sufferings,  and  bereavements, 
with  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  afflict  him, 
still  stands  with  his  lamp  brightly  burning,  wait- 
ing his  Lord's  coming." 

If  there  be  any  man  of  whom  we  may  without 
presumption  feel  assured  that  he  will  hear  the 
joyful  words,  "Well  done,  thou  good  and  faith- 
ful servant,"  it  is  certainly  the  pious  Judson,  the 
great  and  persevering  founder  of  Christianity  in 
a  land  of  dark  idolatry  and  superstition. 


178 


HUMILITY. 

BY   JAMES    MONTGOMERY,   ESQ. 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing, 

Builds  on  the  ground  her  lowly  nest; 
And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing, 
Sings  in  the  shade  when  all  things  rest ; 
In  Lark  and  Nightingale  we  see. 
What  honor  hath  humility. 

When  Mary  chose  the  better  part, 
She  meekly  sate  at  Jesus'  feet ; 
And  Lydia's  gently  opened  heart 

Was  made  for  God's  own  temple  meet. 
Fairest  and  most  adorned  is  she 
Whose  clothing  is  humility. 

The  saint  that  wears  heaven's  brightest  crown 

In  deepest  adoration  bends; 
The  weight  of  glory  bows  him  down, 
Then  most,  when  most  his  soul  ascends. 
Nearest  the  throne  itself  must  be 
The  footstool  of  humility. 


179 


THE    ROBIN. 


BY  E.  B.    C. 


"  O  childhood  !  sweet  childhood  !  how  blest  was  thy  reign 

Ere  my  bosom  had  tasted  misfortune  or  pain, 
When  Fancy's  bright  fingers  with  flowers  dressed  the  sod, 

And  Hope  scattered  roses  wherever  I  trod." 

We  are  told  in  fairy  traditions,  that  whoever 
sleeps  within  the  charmed  circle  that  those  tiny 
sprites  have  drawn  upon  the  greensward,  is 
conveyed  in  his  slumbers  to  their  strange  and 
bewildering  land.  In  that  dazzling  region,  he 
is  surrounded  by  all  that  can  fascinate  the  senses, 
or  beguile  the  judgment.  The  richest  gems  form 
the  pavement  on  which  he  treads.  Palaces  of 
adamant,  flashing  with  prismatic  splendor,  tower 
above  him — soft  strains  of  music  fill  the  air  with 
harmony — and  luscious  fruits  invite  his  famishing 
appetite.  He  tastes  the  feast,  and  the  bright  pa- 
geant vanishes  at  once.  A  dreary  waste  stretches 
mournfully  around — he  hears  wailing  and  shrieks 
instead  of  music — and  the  viands  which  lately 
appeared  so  inviting,  are  seen  to  be  the  garbage 
and  refuse  of  the  earth.     So  it  is  with  our  early 


180  THE    ROBIN. 

visions  of  life.  The  world  then  appears  as 
beautiful  as  the  charmed  realm  of  Fairy-land. — 
Its  pleasures  and  honors  excite  our  most  eager 
wishes,  and  we  partake  of  the  tempting  banquet 
which  is  placed  enticingly  before  us.  No  soon- 
er have  we  done  so,  than  the  illusion  is  dispelled, 
and  all  the  glittering  gauds,  which  seemed  to  us 
inestimable,  fade  into  utter  worthlessness. 

I  am  one  whom  the  world  hath  delighted  to 
honor.  My  bark  has  made  a  glittering  track 
on  the  sea  of  life.  I  have  won  my  way  through 
the  rough  brake  of  adversity,  and  reached  the 
proud  temple  of  fame ;  but  whenever  I  recur  to 
the  happy  morning  of  existence,  my  reflections 
are  tinged  with  the  sadness  of  regret. 

In  the  little  plate  accompanying  these  remi- 
niscences, I  recognize  my  earliest  home.  It 
was  that  cottage  on  the  right,  whose  court-yard 
is  so  filled  with  clustering  flowers.  Beside  the 
lattice  concealed  by  those  fragrant  roses,  my 
mother  used  to  ply  her  spinning-wheel ;  and  the 
hum  of  the  bees,  who  were  gathering  honey 
among  the  blossoms,  chimed  in,  not  unmu- 
sically, with  the  drowsy  whirl  of  her  implement 
of  industry.  The  opposite  dwelling  had  a  very 
pretty  garden  behind  it :  and,  as  the  dearest  of 
my  playmates  lived  there,  it  has  not  unfrequent- 
y  resounded  with  my  childish  glee. 


THE    ROBIN,  181 

I  well  remember  the  incident  depicted  in 
the  engraving.  It  had  been  a  cold,  very  cold 
winter.  The  trees  were  loaded  with  icicles, 
and  the  very  water  in  the  well  was  frozen. 
One  morning,  as  my  sister  and  myself  were 
discussing  our  bread  and  milk,  we  espied  a 
robin  fluttering  wistfully  around  the  window. 
Our  hearts  were  of  course  immediately  enlisted 
in  his  behalf,  and  from  that  time  he  was  a  daily 
pensioner  on  our  bounty.  He  usually  alighted 
between  the  two  houses,  and  our  little  neighbors, 
as  well  as  ourselves,  took  great  delight  in  feeding 
him.  At  length  summer  returned,  but  the  bird 
still  continued  his  visits.  Perhaps  he  had  some 
scruples  of  conscience  about  eating  worms, — 
perhaps  he  thought  crumbs  agreed  better  with 
his  voice ; — but  be  that  as  it  may,  he  came  every 
day  for  his  accustomed  dole  of  charity.  Do  you 
see  those  two  little  creatures,  encircled  by  their 
mother's  arms,  who  are  looking  anxiously  at  the 
robin  1  That  timid  innocent  who  is  standing  in 
a  retreating  attitude,  as  if  fearful  of  affrighting 
her  tiny  guest,  died  while  yet  uncontaminated 
by  the  experience  of  evil.  She  was  too  pure 
and  peaceful  for  this  sordid  and  wrangling  world, 
and  the  angels,  whose  special  office  is  the  minis- 
try of  heaven,  transplanted  her  betimes  to  a  more 

sunny  and  congenial   clime       The  other  little 
16 


182  THE    ROBIN. 

damsel  has  long  been  the  companion  of  my 
fortunes,  and  it  of  course  becomes  me  to  say  as 
little  of  her  as  possible.  I  think,  however,  the 
painter  has  made  her  look  rather  too  prying 
and  inquisitive — too  much  as  if  she  wanted  to 
know  what  the  robin  thought  of  matters  and 
things. 

One  of  my  schoolfellows,  a  great  lubberly 
boy,  who  had  heard  of  our  feathered  visitant, 
told  me  one  day,  that  if  I  could  sprinkle  a  few 
grains  of  fresh  salt  upon  his  tail,  I  should  be 
sure  to  catch  him  The  next  morning,  accord 
ingly,  I  tried  the  experiment.  My  sister,  who 
was  as  mischievous  as  myself,  held  open  the  box 
while  I  abstracted  a  portion  of  its  contents. 
With  my  hand  filled  with  the  saline  particles,  I 
cautiously  approached  the  robin ;  but  just  as  1 
was  felicitating  myself  upon  the  contiguity,  the 
unconscionable  thing  spread  his  wing1  and  flew 
far  away,  carolling  the  while  as  blithe  a  song  as 
if  no  disappointed  urchin  had  labored  to  intrap 
him.  The  next  day  we  looked  anxiously  for  his 
reappearance,  but  he  never  came  again.  His 
further  history  I  leave  to  some  more  diligent 
chronicler.  Sister  and  myself  afterwards  re- 
called to  mind,  that  we  had  forgotten  that  the 
condiment  should  be  fresh! 


183 


SONNET. 

Written  on  seeing  a  very  young  child  smile  in  its  sleep,  and  hearing 
its  mother  say,  that,  according  to  the  old  women's  superstition,  chil- 
dren dream  during  their  first  month  of  all  they  will  pass  through 
during  life. 

BY   JOHN    HOLLAND.  ESQ. 

Smile  on,  sweet  babe,  for  ancient  gossips  say, 
That  in  this  first  month  of  existence,  thou 
Dost  dream  of  all  that  in  this  world  below 

Shall  mark  thy  future  life ;  smile,  and  portray 

To  us,  who  look  upon  thee,  that  thou  art 
At  least  now  dreaming  sweetly,  howsoe'er 
In  many  an  after-day,  and  after-year, 

Should'st  these  be  thine — thou  mayest  play  thy 
part — 

Smile  on,  sweet  babe,  for  thou  art  one  of  those 
Whom  Christ  our  Savior  once  embraced  and 
blessed ; 

And  God,  with  all  earth's  happiness  or  woes, 
Shall  give  thee  what  is  infinitely  best, 

For  children's  angels  always  do  behold 

Their  heavenly  Father's  face  in  happiness  untold 


184 


SONNET. 


BT   JAMES    WHITE,    ESQ. 


If  lowly  roof,  with  competence,  be  thine 
O  covet  not  the  splendor  of  the  great ! 
They  are  the  slaves  of  show  and  cumb'rous  state; 

Do  thou  in  freedom  and  content  recline, 

Thankful  to  God,  whose  providence  benign 
Has  given  a  happy,  though  unenvied  lot. 
Does  not  his  glorious  sun  upon  thy  cot 

As  brightly  as  on  regal  palace  shine  ? 
And  is  the  rose  which  decks  thy  rustic  bower, 

Nurtured  by  dews  of  heaven,  and  noontide  ray, 
Less  sweet,  less  beauteous,  than  exotic  flower, 

Pent  up  and  pining  for  the  wholesome  day  ? 
Does  listening  grandeur  hear,  in  vernal  grove. 
Than  thou,  a  more  melodious  song  of  love? 


Timm    Ewmm    k®m©©jLm©^c 


185 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

"  Come,  George,  it  is  time  for  us  to  oe 
moving  on;  the  bell  will  ring  now  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  you  know  what  we  shall  catch 
if  we  come  in  late." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  how  I  do  hate  school !  Don't 
let's  go  yet;  it  wants  a  quarter  to  nine,  I'm 
sure,  and  it's  such  fun  watching  these  little 
terrapins  as  they  scramble  out  of  the  water  to  sun 
themselves  on  the  logs !     Don't  go  yet,  Tom." 

"  Oh,  but  we  must,  George.  I  like  to  see  the 
terrapins  as  well  as  you,  but  I  don't  like  the 
master's  black  looks,  or  a  flogging  either;  and 
I  know  it  wants  only  a  few  minutes  to  nine. 
Come  along,  George." 

"  Well,  if  I  must,  I  suppose  I  must.  But  I 
think  it's  very  hard,  Tom.  I  can't  see  what 
father  makes  me  go  to  school  for ;  I  guess  he 
wouldn't  like  it  himself." 

"  Oh,  but,  George,  you  know  we   must  learn 

writing  and  arithmetic,  and  other  things.     My 

father  says,  that  a  man  might  almost  as  well  be 

without  hands  as  without  education  ;  and  if  it 

16* 


1S6  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

was  not  likely  to  be  good  for  me,  I  don't  believe 
he  would  go  to  the  expense,  for  you  know  he 
can't  afford  it  very  well,  any  more  than  yours. 
So  come  along,  George." 

This  little  dialogue  passed  one  fine  morning 
in  the  beginning  of  summer,  between  two  little 
ooys  whose  parents  lived  in  a  beautiful  village 
on  the  west  bank  of  the  Hudson.  Their  names 
were  George  Wilson  and  Thomas  Macfarlane. 
They  were  both  tolerably  good  boys — that  is, 
they  never  fought,  or  told  lies,  or  took  what  did 
not  belong  to  them,  or  did  mischief  for  mis- 
chief's  sake,  as  too  many  lads  often  do;  they 
were  good-natured,  industrious,  and  obedient  to 
their  parents,  respectful  to  their  elders,  and 
cheerful  and  obliging  among  their  school-fellows 
and  play-mates.  So  far,  there  was  but  little 
difference  between  them ;  but  there  was  one 
point  in  which  one  little  boy  could  hardly  be 
more  at  variance  with  another,  than  was  George 
Wilson  from  his  friend  and  companion. — Thom- 
as loved  books  with  a  resistless  passion,  while  to 
George  they  were  the  most  wearisome  things  in 
the  world.  Thomas  delighted  in  reading  story- 
books, accounts  of  travels,  and,  above  all,  works 
that  treated  of  natural  history — of  the  habits 
and  instincts  of  the  various  beasts — the  beautiful 
plumage  and  melodious  song  of  birds— the  won- 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  187 

derful  and  ingenious  contrivances  of  insects — 
of  the  huge  elephant,  mightiest  of  all  that  treads 
the  earth — the  sagacious  marmot — the  insatiable 
otter — the  fierce  eagle,  and  the  humming-bird, 
that  loveliest  of  the  feathered  kind — the  method- 
ical bee,  and  the  precious  silkworm,  with  all 
their  admirable  works  and  modes  of  providing 
for  their  own  wants,  and  the  safety  of  their 
progeny.  He  had  little  time  to  read,  for  his 
father  was  only  a  poor  farmer,  and  there  was 
work  enough  for  him  to  do  in  every  season  of 
the  year  except  the  winter;  it  is  true,  that  he 
was  but  a  little  boy,  and  could  not  undertake 
hard  work,  such  as  ploughing,  or  mowing,  or 
building  fences,  or  getting  in  the  crops;  but 
there  are  many  things  to  be  done  upon  a  farm, 
which  even  little  boys  can  undertake,  and 
Thomas  was  never  idle.  The  summer  in  which 
this  story  commences,  was  the  first  in  which  he 
had  been  spared  for  school;  and,  although  he 
did  not  like  grammar,  and  arithmetic,  and  geog- 
raphy, so  well  as  he  did  the  books  for  which  we 
have  already  mentioned  his  fondness,  yet  he 
gave  them  up  cheerfully,  and  devoted  all  his 
leisure  time  at  home  to  his  lessons,  because  he 
knew  that  it  would  please  his  father  in  the  first 
place,  and  in  the  second,  because  he  could  not 
be  sure  of  going  to  school  another  year,  except 


188  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

in  the  three  winter  months,  and  therefore  had 
no  time  to  lose.  Besides,  he  had  sense  enough 
to  reflect,  that  what  he  learned  at  school  was 
likely  to  be  more  useful  to  him  than  what  he 
read  in  his  favorite  books,  although  not  quite  so 
pleasant;  and  his  father  had  early  made  him 
understand,  that  out  of  useful  things  acquired 
in  youth,  grow  pleasant  things  to  be  enjoyed  in 
manhood. 

As  we  have  already  said,  George  Wilson  was 
in  many  things  as  good  a  boy  as  his  companion, 
Thomas ;  but  he  disliked  books  in  general,  and 
school-books  in  particular,  with  an  aversion  that 
almost  amounted  to  hatred.  He  was  not  an 
idle  boy;  he  would  work  from  morning  til] 
night,  as  hard  as  his  years  and  strength  would 
permit — go  any  where — do  any  thing — even  go 
without  his  dinner,  rather  than  be  "  stuck 
down,"  as  he  called  it,  to  a  book,  no  matter  how 
pleasant  and  entertaining  it  might  be. — His 
father  was  but  very  little  richer  than  Thomas 
Macfarlane's ;  but  he  was  equally  desirous  that 
his  son  should  enjoy  the  advantages  of  educa- 
tion, and  when  his  neighbor  told  him  that  he 
had  resolved  to  strain  a  point,  and  let  Tom  go 
to  school  for  at  least  one  summer,  he  made  up 
his  mind  at  once  to  do  as  much  for  George, 
however  inconvenient  the  expense  might  be. 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  189 

But  this  was  dreary  tidings  for  George. 
School  was  quite  bad  enough,  he  thought,  in 
winter ;  but  to  be  cooped  up  in  a  little  room 
every  day  in  the  bright,  pleasant  summer,  poring 
over  a  stupid  grammar,  or  horrible  slate,  or  the 
"  hard  maps,"  when  he  would  rather  be  scamper- 
ing over  the  hills,  or  down  by  the  river-side  fish- 
ing, or  helping  his  father  in  the  hay-field,  or 
going  into  the  woods  to  bring  home  the  cows, 
or  lying  at  full  length  upon  his  back,  listening 
to  the  song  of  the  gay  birds,  and  the  chirp  of 
the  grasshoppers,  or,  in  short,  working  or  play- 
ing at  any  thing  out  of  doors — was,  in  his 
estimation,  the  very  perfection  of  hardship  : 
and,  as  he  could  not  or  would  not  perceive  what 
was  to  be  gained  by  it  in  the  end,  he  considered 
it  little  better  than  rank  tyranny  in  his  father ; 
although,  to  do  the  boy  justice,  no  thought  of 
resisting  his  father's  will  ever  entered  his  mind. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that,  with  such  feel- 
ings, going  to  school  was  of  no  real  service  to 
George.  Learning  is  not  to  be  won  by  a 
reluctant  mind;  and  reluctant  his  was,  in  the 
fullest  sense  of  the  word.  He  was  always  the 
last  to  come  in,  and  the  last  of  his  class  when 
he  got  there;  his  lessons  were  seldom  well 
iearned,  his  sums  seldom  finished,  except  when 
he  obtained  help  from  his  friend  Tom,  and  his 


190  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

copy-books  always  lasted  the  longest.  The 
least  and  most  trivial  object  or  incident  was 
enough  to  retard  him  in  his  way  to  the  school ; 
and,  even  when  he  kept  on  without  stopping, 
nis  movement  was  sluggish  and  indolent.  In  all 
other  directions  he  went  skipping  gayly  along, 
as  full  of  life  and  activity  as  a  squirrel  leaping 
from  tree  to  tree  in  its  sportive  gambols ;  but, 
with  study  before  him,  his  pace  was  that  of  a 
snail.  The  way  from  his  house  ran  through  a 
number  of  fields,  and  by  the  pond,  at  whose 
side  the  conversation  was  held,  with  which  this 
story  commences ;  and  it  came  into  the  road 
that  led  to  the  school-house,  just  at  the  end  of  a 
high  stone  wall,  by  the  side  of  which  was  a 
stile  that  had  to  be  got  over  before  he  came 
into  the  road.  That  pond,  and  that  stile,  were 
sore  hinderances  to  poor  George.  When  the 
weather  was  fine,  the  odd-looking  little  tortoises 
used  to  crawl  out  of  the  water,  and  lie  all  about 
on  the  logs,  and  stones,  and  little  hillocks  of 
turf,  basking  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  poking 
their  heads  out  from  their  shells  as  far  as  their 
long  necks  would  allow  ;  and  George  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  linger  a  while,  and  enjoy 
the  fun  of  seeing  them  go,  scrambling,  and 
slipping,  and  splashing,  tail  foremost,  into  the 
water,  when  he  sent  stones  at  them,  or  frightened 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  191 

them  by  a  too  near  approach.  The  turtles  were 
seldom  got  by  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  the  stile  was  almost  sure  to  come  in  for 
another.  The  top-rail  made  such  a  nice  seat, 
and  the  wall  projected  beyond,  so  that,  without 
coming  forward  a  little,  he  could  not  be  seen 
from  the  school ;  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road  was  a  barn,  that  had  a  weathercock  stuck 
on  a  pole,  standing  up  from  the  peak  of  the 
roof — one  of  those  whimsical  figures,  so  often 
produced  by  the  ingenuity  of  the  country  lads, 
a  fierce  little  warrior,  with  a  monstrous  cocked 
hat,  and  a  sword  in  each  hand,  which  he  flour- 
ishes as  he  turns,  with  a  most  ferocious  dex- 
terity ;  and  there  George  would  sit,  with  his 
satchel  dangling  over  his  shoulders,  admiring 
the  valiant  soldier  fighting  the  wind,  or  watching 
the  crows  and  the  sheep,  and  the  swallows  that 
twittered  about  the  eaves  of  the  barn,  and  the 
pigeons  that  wheeled  over  his  head,  and  the 
horses  cropping  the  grass — or,  perhaps,  thinking 
what  a  pity  it  was  that  boys  had  to  go  to  school, 
whether  they  liked  it  or  not. 

The  summer  passed  away,  and  winter  came 
and  went.  Thomas  Macfarlane  made  good  use 
of  his  time  and  opportunity ;  but  George  was 
still  the  idle  schoolboy,  and  his  year  of  educa- 
tion  scarcely  added  to  his  stock  of  learning. 


192  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

He  had  oecome  a  tolerable  reader,  but  gained 
no  increase  of  taste  or  inclination  for  the  prac- 
tice ;  of  grammar  and  geography  he  knew  almost; 
nothing ;  and  his  writing  might  still  have  passed 
for  the  first  efforts  of  a  better  penman,  driven  to 
the  employment  of  his  left  hand,  by  the  loss  or 
mutilation  of  the  right.  As  for  arithmetic,  that 
he  never  could  get  on  with — at  least,  so  he  de- 
clared himself — and  he  could  apply  to  himself 
literally,  and  with  perfect  truth,  the  well-known 
schoolboy  rhymes,  in  which  the  torments  of  Mul- 
tiplication, Division,  Practice,  and  the  Rule  of 
Three,  are  specifically  designated.  His  father's 
circumstances,  and  his  own  increased  strength, 
denied  him  another  complete  year  of  trial,  and 
the  little  schooling  he  was  able  to  gain  during 
the  next  three  or  four  winters,  did  scarcely  more 
than  serve  to  keep  up  in  him  the  very  scanty- 
acquirements  we  have  described. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  George,  from  an  idle 
schoolboy,  grew  to  be  an  ignorant  young  man. 
He  was  frugal  and  industrious,  and,  in  other 
respects,  a  well-disposed  and  well-behaved  per- 
son ;  but  he  knew  scarcely  any  thing  beyond  the 
mere  mechanical  routine  of  his  daily  occupa- 
tion ;  and,  even  if  he  had  had  nothing  else  to  do, 
books  would  have  been  the  very  last  expedient 
to  which  he  would  have  thought  of  resorting  for 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  193 

pleasure  or  employment.  As  it  was,  he  had  to 
work  hard  all  day,  and,  when  his  work  was  done, 
if  he  had  nobody  to  talk  with  through  the  long 
evenings,  nor  any  place  to  go  to,  nor  amusement 
to  beguile  the  time,  he  would  either  go  to  bed, 
or  else  sit  dozing  by  the  fire-side,  with  no  more 
thought  of  cultivating  his  mind  than  if  he  had 
no  such  thing  in  his  possession. 

Time  passes,  and  so  do  the  lives  of  men.  Old 
Mr.  Wilson  died,  and  George,  now  twenty-six 
years  of  age,  succeeded  him  in  the  farm.  He 
married  a  wife,  and  children  were  born  unto 
him ;  and  in  other  respects  his  career  was  for 
many  years  almost  the  counterpart  of  his  father's 
He  continued  to  labor  in  the  same  field,  and  send 
his  produce  to  the  same  markets ;  living  in  the 
same  little  old  house ;  and  like  him,  too,  finding 
himself,  year  after  year,  just  as  poor  on  the  last 
day  of  December  as  he  had  been  on  the  previous 
first  of  January.  He  saw  his  neighbors  increas- 
ing in  wealth  and  prosperity ;  boys  who  had  gone 
to  the  same  school  and  at  the  same  time  with 
himself,  and,  like  him,  the  sons  of  poor  farmers, 
rising  above  their  original  sphere — their  posses- 
sions enlarged  by  judicious  enterprise,  their  en- 
joyments augmented,  not  only  by  the  increase 
of  means,  but  still  more  by  the  improved  taste 
and  expanded  knowledge,  for  the  acquisition  of 
17 


194  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

which  competence  gives  facilities,  and  their 
children  preparing  by  a  liberal  and  complete 
education  for  a  career  of  usefulness,  and,  per- 
haps, the  attainment  of  the  highest  honors, 
accessible,  in  this  favored  land,  to  all  men  of 
intelligence  and  talent,  whatever  may  be  their 
origin  or  station.  George  was  not  of  a  com 
plaining  or  envious  disposition ;  but  he  could  not 
help  noticing  the  contrast  between  his  own  un- 
improving  fortunes,  and  those  of  almost  every 
one  around  him.  All  seemed  to  be  thriving  but 
himself;  and  the  older  he  grew,  the  more  he  saw 
reason  to  repine  at  what  he  called  "  the  differ- 
ence of  luc;k,"  to  which  he  ascribed  their  grow- 
ing wealth  and  his  continued  poverty.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  the  real  cause  was  to  be 
found  in  their  greater  intelligence  and  knowl- 
edge. The  seeds  which  had  been  planted  in 
their  minds  in  youth,  had  been  kept  alive  by 
nourishment,  and  cherished  in  their  springing 
up  and  progress  to  maturity,  while  his  under- 
standing had  lain  fallow;  and  the  harvest  showed 
who  had  pursued  the  wiser  course.  He  did  not 
reflect,  or  perhaps  he  did  not  know,  that  time 
employed  in  youth  in  gaining  knowledge  is  time 
well  spent,  not  merely  because  the  acquisition  is 
valuable,  but  still  more  from  the  improvement 
ot  the  mind  itself,  which  inevitably  follows  the 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  195 

very  act  of  making  it;  that  the  intellect,  like 
the  bodily  frame,  acquires  strength  by  exercise ; 
and  that  the  boy  who  improves  his  opportunities, 
is  certain  to  become  not  only  a  better  informed, 
but  a  better  judging  and  more  prosperous  man, 
than  the  boy  who  idles  them  away.  One  who 
has  been  accustomed  to  any  particular  kind  of 
labor,  as,  for  example,  wielding  the  hammer,  like 
the  blacksmith,  will  possess  more  strength  of 
arm,  not  only  for  that,  but  for  every  other  species 
of  exertion  that  requires  strength,  than  another 
whose  muscles  have  never  been  invigorated  by 
exercise ;  and  it  is  just  so  with  the  mind.  The 
boy  who  acquires  knowledge,  is  not  only  laying 
up  a  store  of  material  with  which  to  work  for  his 
own  future  benefit  and  honor,  but  at  the  same 
time  gaining  skill  and  power  to  employ  that  ma- 
terial to  the  best  advantage. 

But  all  this  was  lost  philosophy  to  poor  George 
Wilson.  He  only  saw  that  his  condition  remain- 
ed just  the  same,  while  that  of  all  his  neighbors 
was  improving;  and  he  considered  it  altogether 
the  result  of  their  good  fortune,  although,  if  he 
had  had  eyes  to  see,  and  intelligence  to  under- 
stand, there  was  no  secret  in  the  matter.  The 
means  of  their  prosperity  were  open  as  the  day- 
light. Their  superior  knowledge  and  judgment 
enabled  them  to  take  advantage  of  the  various 


196  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

improvements  in  agriculture,  and  in  farming 
utensils,  that  were  made  from  time  to  time ;  to 
avail  themselves  of  new  and  more  profitable 
markets  for  the  sale  of  their  grain,  and  wool, 
and  other  produce ;  and  to  engage  in  safe  and 
prudent  speculations,  such  as  frequently  present 
themselves  to  almost  every  man,  but  are  appre- 
ciated and  made  Use  of  only  by  the  alert  and  the 
judicious.  All  this  was  above  George  Wilson's 
comprehension ;  his  neglected  education  had 
left  him  a  mere  laborer,  without  sagacity  to 
understand  advantages  offered  for  his  accept- 
ance, or  to  foresee  those  which  might  be  obtain- 
ed in  future;  and  he  had  no  thought  beyond 
ploughing,  sowing,  and  reaping,  just  as  his 
father  had  done  before  him,  while  his  neighbors 
successfully  adopted  newer  and  better  systems, 
and  were  prompt  to  seize  all  the  opportunities 
afforded  by  an  improving  state  of  science  and 
society. 

Thus  he  went  on  for  several  years,  working 
hard  and  living  frugally,  yet  gaining  nothing 
more  than  a  bare  subsistence  by  his  toil ;  and 
thus  perhaps  he  would  have  continued  till  his 
death,  had  no  misfortune  overtaken  him.  But 
a  life  without  misfortune  seldom  falls  to  the 
lot  of  man,  and  that  of  George  Wilson  was  no 
exception  to  the  general  rule.     An  unproductive 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  197 

season  plunged  him  into  debt,  and  the  loss  of  a 
few  hundred  dollars  by  the  failure  of  a  merchant 
to  whom  he  had  sold  a  quantity  of  produce  upon 
credit,  for  the  sake  of  getting  a  higher  price, 
completed  his  embarrassment.  Ruin  stared  him 
in  the  face,  and  his  creditors  becoming  urgent 
for  the  payment  of  their  claims  against  him,  he 
was  compelled  to  think  of  selling  his  farm,  and 
preparing  himself  for  still  greater  privations  than 
even  those  he  had  been  accustomed  to  encounter 
and  endure.  It  was  a  painful  extremity,  and 
George  could  hardly  bear  to  think  of  it  at  first ; 
but  necessity  is  a  stern  master,  and  before  many 
months  had  passed  away,  he  was  constrained  not 
only  to  dwell  upon  the  measure  in  his  mind, 
but  to  take  the  necessary  steps  for  putting  it  in 
execution. 

It  happened  that,  at  this  period,  George 
received  a  visit  from  an  uncle  whom  he  had 
never  seen ;  his  father's  younger  brother,  who, 
in  early  life,  being  of  a  roving  and  somewhat 
unsettled  disposition,  had  taken  it  into  his  head 
to  learn  a  trade,  and  for  that  purpose,  to  try  his 
fortune  in  the  city  of  New  York ;  but  had  after- 
ward gone  to  sea,  and  finally  established  him- 
self in  one  of  the  Western  States — those  fertile 
and  rapidly-advancing  regions  to  which  so  many 
emigrants  \V  ere  tempted,  some  twenty  or  thirty 
17* 


198  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

years  ago,  by  the  hope  of  gaining  wealth  at  less 
expenditure  of  time  and  labor  than  was  indis- 
pensable in  the  more  thickly-peopled  states  that 
lie  upon  the  Atlantic.  At  the  moment  of  his 
arrival,  his  nephew  had  just  succeeded  in  ob- 
taining a  purchaser  for  his  farm,  and  was  anx- 
iously debating  within  himself,  what  course  he 
should  adopt,  what  means  to  resort  to,  for  a 
livelihood.  He  consulted  his  visitor,  of  course, 
and  the  immediate  reply  was,  "  Come  to  Ohio.' 
But  little  argument  was  needed  to  persuade  one 
so  totally  impoverished,  and  so  little  capable  of 
judging  for  himself,  as  the  hero  of  our  tale ;  and 
it  was  soon  determined  that  the  uncle  should  re- 
turn forthwith  to  his  own  residence,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  making  preparations,  and  that  George 
should  follow  him  as  soon  as  he  could  settle  up 
his  affairs,  and  convert  his  whole  possessions  into 
money. 

A  few  months  sufficed  to  accomplish  this  last 
requisite,  and  early  in  the  spring,  George  Wilson 
departed  with  his  family,  and  his  little  stock  of 
wealth,  from  the  village  in  which  his  life  had 
hitherto  been  passed.  It  is  not  our  purpose  to 
follow  him  on  his  journey,  which  was  accom- 
plished slowly,  but  without  any  accident  or  ad- 
venture worthy  to  be  recorded ;  but  to  transport 
the  reader  at  once  to  the  nourishing  little  town 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY.  199 

of  B — — ,  in  the  north-western  part  of  the  state 
of  Ohio,  not  far  from  which  was  the  portion  of 
land,  consisting  of  several  hundred  acres,  pur- 
chased for  George  Wilson  by  his  uncle.  The 
travellers  arrived  at  B ,  a  little  before  even- 
ing, and  were  surprised  to  find  the  inhabitants 
engaged  in  a  general  demonstration  of  joy,  as  if 
the  occurrence  of  some  happy  event,  in  which 
all  were  interested,  and  by  which  all  were  very 
much  delighted.  The  bells  were  sending  out 
loud  and  merry  peals  from  the  steeples  of  the 
only  two  churches  in  the  place — a  gun  was  re- 
peatedly fired  upon  the  green  before  the  court- 
house— the  people  thronged  the  streets  with  glad 
looks,  uttering  frequent  shouts  of  congratula- 
tion—flags were  waving  from  high  poles  set  up 
at  the  corners — a  band  of  music  was  playing  in 
the  great  room  of  the  principal  hotel — and  the 
usual  appearance  of  bustle  and  activity  in  busi- 
ness seemed  to  have  given  place  to  a  general 
expression  of  public  satisfaction.  The  curiosity 
of  our  emigrant  was,  of  course,  much  excited, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  established  his  family  in 
the  hotel,  at  which  they  were  to  pass  the  night, 
and  he  could  gain  the  attention  of  the  landlord, 
who  seemed  as  much  delighted  as  the  rest,  he 
begged  to  know  the  occasion  of  all  this  glad- 
ness and  rejoicing.     "We  have  just  got  through 


200  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

our  county  election,"  said  the  host,  "  and  the 
successful  candidate  is  a  great  favorite.  There 
was  great  opposition  in  other  parts  of  the 
county,  where  the  people  do  not  know  him  so 
we'll  as  we  do ;  but  all  is  right  now,  and  so  we 
are  burning  a  little  powder  for  joy." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  a  townsman  of  yours,  then." 

••  Yes :  he  has  lived  here  almost  from  the  time 
of  the  very  first  house-raising ;  for  you  see  our 

B is  but  a  young  place,  although  it  is  so 

nourishing." 

"  And  what  was  the  election  for,  if  I  may 
ask  ? " 

"Member  of  congress." 

"  And  the  candidate  is  a  lawyer,  I  suppose? " 

"  No :  he  is  a  farmer ;  owns  that  large  and 
thriving  estate  you  passed  just  before  you  came 
into  the  town.  He  is  one  of  our  richest  men, 
and  one  that  has  got  more  learning  too  than 
nine-tenths  of  the  lawyers  anywhere  about  here; 
but  it  is  not  for  his  money,  nor  his  learning,  that 
we  are  glad  to  have  him  for  our  representative  ; 
it  is  because  he  is  a  smart,  sensible  man  in  the 
first  place,  and  a  right  up-and-down  honest  man 
into  the  bargain.  That  is  what  we  all  stood  up 
for  him  for." 

"  Is  he*a  native  of  this  state  ? " 

"  No :  he  is  from  York ;  he  came  out  here 


THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY  201 

more  than  twenty  years  ago,  and  settled  right 
down  where  he  is  now ;  in  fact,  we  consider  him 
almost  the  founder  of  this  town.  When  he  first 
came  here,  he  was  poor,  and  there  were  only  a 
few  farm-houses  scattered  about;  he  and  the 
town  have  grown  up  into  consequence  to- 
gether." 

"  Well,  he  must  be  considerable  of  a  man 
from  your  account ;  what  is  his  name,  pray  ?  " 

"  Macfarlane." 

"Macfarlane?  from  York  state,  you  say;  not 
Thomas  Macfarlane  surely — my  old  school- 
mate? " 

"Yes:  his  name  is  Thomas,  sure  enough; 
and  if  you  were  a  schoolmate  of  his,  you  have 
something  to  be  proud  of,  I  can  tell  you." 

And  it  was  indeed  Thomas  Macfarlane ;  that 
same  Thomas,  who,,  thirty  years  before,  had  so 
improved  the  time  which  George  had  wasted. 
His  manhood  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his 
youth,  and  the  seed  then  sown  had  taken  root, 
and  sprung  up  green  and  flourishing ;  and  these 
were  the  fruits  it  had  brought  forth — wealth, 
respect,  the  esteem  and  confidence  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  and  an  honorable  place  in  the  councils 
of  the  nation.  "  Alas,"  thought  George,  when 
he  was  again  alone,  "  I  see  now  the  truth  of 
what  Tom  said  to  me,  that  l  one  might  almost  as 


202  THE    IDLE    SCHOOLBOY. 

well  be  without  hands  as  without  education.' 
He  made  good  use  of  his  time  and  opportunities, 
and  he  is  rich,  useful,  honored,  and  happy;  I 
am  a  poor  worthless  creature,  struggling  with 
hardship  almost  at  the  close  of  life,  and  scarcely 
hoping  to  be  any  thing  better  than  I  am,  for 
there  is  no  time  now  to  amend  the  errors  of  my 
youth.     This   is  my  reward  for  having  been  an 

IDLE  SCHOOLBOY." 


203 


EMULATION. 

VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  AN  ASSIDUOUS  LITTLE  BOT 
BY  JOHN   HOLLAND,  ESQ. 

Yon  oak,  round  which  the  trees  grow  up 

As  round  a  forest  chief, 
Was  once  an  acorn  in  its  cup — 
Was  once  a  single  leaf; 
rill,  past  a  hundred  years,  it  stood, 
The  sylvan  monarch  of  the  wood. 

The  brightest  day  of  summer's  reign, 

In  morning  twilight  dawns, 
Till  shadows  shorten  o'er  the  plain, 
Till  dry  the  dewy  lawns : 
And  lo !  the  sun  in  splendor  soon 
Ascends  the  gorgeous  throne  of  noon. 

The  bard,  the  warrior,  and  the  sage, 

In  infancy  once  stood; — 
The  man  a  hundred  years  of  age, 
Was  once  man  in  the  bud : 
Time  was  when  school-tasks  were  begun 
E'en  by  the  future  Washington 


204  EMULATION.     . 

Then  know,  dear  youth,  the  greatest  man 

Was  once  as  young  as  thee ; — 
Twilight  the  longest  day  began, 
A  seed — the  largest  tree ; 
That  as  in  nature,  so  in  deeds, 
Progression  to  perfection  leads. 

Whate'er  thy  station,  or  thy  state, 

Strive  others  to  excel ; 
Surpass,  as  well  as  emulate, 
What  they  are  doing  well ; 
Nor  deem  the  strife  of  merit  done, 
While  other  conquests  may  be  won 

But  chiefly  aim  at  virtue's  prize ; 

'Tis  wisdom  in  the  bud, — 
For  he  who  will  be  great  and  wise, 
Must  first  of  all  be  good ; 
And  man,  great,  wise,  and  good,  may  oe, 
Whate'er  his  station  and  degree 


•205 


THE    AUTUMN    WALK, 

Come,  sister  Clara,  let  me  take 

That  skipping-rope  away ; 
I'm  tired  of  marbles,  top,  and  ball ; 

I  want  a  walk  to-day. 

Go,  get  your  hat ;  the  autumn  sun 
Shines  out  so  warm  and  bright, 

That  you  might  almost  think  it  spring 
But  for  the  swallows  flight. 

In  the  old  woods  I  found  this  morn 

A  drawing-room  complete, 
A  Persian  carpet  made  of  leaves, 

A  mossy  sofa's  seat. 

And  through  the  many-colored  boughs 
The  cheerful  sunlight  beams, 

More  beautiful  by  far  than  when 
Through  silken  blinds  it  gleams. 

In  the  twined  branches  overhead 

The  squirrel  gambols  free, 
Dropping  his  empty  nutshells  down 

Beneath  the  chestnut-tree. 
18 


206  THE    AUTUMN    WALK. 

And  now  and  then  the  rustling  leaves 
Are  scattered  far  and  wide, 

As  the  scared  rabbit  hurries  past, 
In  deeper  shades  to  hide. 

Among  the  leafless  brushwood,  too, 

You  sometimes  may  espy, 
Peering  so  cautiously  about, 

The  woodrat's  bright  black  eye. 

Come,  let  us  to  that  sunny  nook, 

I  love  to  wander  so, 
Amid  the  quiet  autumn  woods ; — 

Dear  sister,  shall  we  go  ? 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


207 


BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD 

BY   JAMES    WHITE,   ESQ. 

The  delightful  villas,  which,  amid  embower- 
ing groves,  crown  the  summit  of  Richmond  Hill, 
were  glittering  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
when,  in  the  fairy  vale  below,  Charles  Herbert 
and  William  Carey  forsook,  for  a  walk  on  the 
green  bank  of  the  Thames,  the  cutter  in  which 
they  had  been  skimming  its  glassy  surface.  It 
was  June.  The  summer  had  not  yet  scorched, 
with  his  hottest  breath,  the  recent  verdure.  All 
around  was  fresh,  blooming,  and  gay  ;  and 
Charles  and  William  were  fresh  and  blooming 
as  the  season.  They  were  in  the  flower  of  their 
youth ;  for  each  had  lately  celebrated  the  day 
which  completed  his  seventeenth  year.  They 
did  not,  however,  look  as  gay  as  did  every  thing 
about  them.  A  dejection,  unusual  to  their  vig- 
orous and  sprightly  age,  was  visible  in  their 
countenances.  On  the  morrow  they  were  to 
separate,  perhaps  forever.  They,  "  whose  dou- 
ble  bosoms  seemed  to  wear  one  heart,"  who 


208         BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD. 

had  been  schoolfellows,  and  playmates, -and 
cronies,  and  constant  associates,  and  faithful 
friends,  for  nine  years;  "whose  bed,  whose 
meals,  whose  exercise,"  during  that  period,  had 
oeen  "  still  together ; "  who  had  enjoyed  the 
same  sports,  read  the  same  books,  had  the  same 
masters,  experienced  the  same  juvenile  troubles 
and  triumphs  ;  who  had  ever  found  a  responsive 
chord  in  each  other's  breast  ;  and  who  loved 
one  another  with  an  ardor  which  nought  but  a 
similar  union  could  produce,  and  spirits  alone, 
like  theirs,  as  yet  unblunted  by  worldly  cares 
and  selfish  passions,  could  feel. 

Charles  Herbert  was  the  only  son  of  a  man  of 
fortune  and  eminence,  and  consequently  seemed 
destined  to  tread  a  smooth  and  flowery  path  in 
the  journey  of  life.  William  Carey  was  an 
orphan ;  at  his  birth  he  lost  his  mother,  and 
before  he  was  four  years  old,  his  father,  a  cadet 
of  good  family,  and  a  captain  in  the  army ;  who, 
when  he  left  the  world,  had  little  to  bequeath 
his  infant  child,  more  than  a  recommendation 
to  the  compassion  and  generosity  of  his  elder 
brother,  which  had  not  been  ineffectual.  Wil- 
liam's uncle,  though  parent  of  a  numerous  and 
expensive  family,  had  bestowed  on  him  a  liberal 
education,  and  had  procured  him  a  commission 
in  a  regiment  then  in  the  East  Indies,  to  join 
which  he  was  about  to  depart. 


BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD.        209 

"There  rest  in  peace,"  said  Charles  Herbert, 
throwing  down  his  oar  ;  "  I  shall  have  little 
disposition  to  disturb  your  repose,  when  the 
partner  of  my  diversion  is  gone.  Can  I  pull 
alone,  without  thinking  of  the  comrade  I  have 
lost? — or  in  company  with  some  rude  boatman, 
without  being  still  more  sensible  of  his  absence? 
Must  we  part  at  the  very  time  each  of  us  most 
needs  the  assistance  of  the  other? — when  we 
are  about  to  enter  that  world,  which  is  ever 
described  as  the  scene  of  intrigue,  guile,  and 
duplicity  ?  I  should  fearlessly  commence  my 
career  in  it,  supported  by  my  dear  William,  who 
would  be  to  me  a  faithful  monitor,  and  a  steady 
defender ;  but  if  he  abandons  me,  where  shall  I 
find  a  friend  in  whom  I  can  equally  confide  ? 
Let  us  not  separate.     My  father  has  wealth,  and 

v      "No,   my  dear  Charles,"   interrupted 

William  Carey,  "  that  cannot  be.  You,  even 
you,  would  despise  me,  if  I  deserted  my  duty. 
The  station  Providence  has  assigned  me,  de- 
mands the  active  exertion  of  my  faculties.  I 
have  to  struggle  for  the  means  of  existence  and 
for  happiness,  and  I  do  not  despair,  though 
thrown  as  I  am  on  the  world  a  solitary  and 
desolate  adventurer  ;  my  present  situation  is  not 
unlike  that  of  the  mariner  clinging  to  a  fragment 
of  his  wrecked  vessel,  in  the  midst  of  the  raging 
18* 


210         BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD. 

ocean.  Your  part  in  life  is  less  difficult;  enjoy- 
ment awaits  you.  But  I  know  your  heart,  and 
you  know  mine.  '  Come  what  come  may/  our 
friendship  is  indissoluble.  Be  comforted ;  we 
shall  meet  again,  I  trust,  in  prosperity  and 
honor,  and  with  undiminished  affection.  How 
joyful  will  be  that  meeting  !  " 

Has  the  reader  sufficient  interest  in  these 
young  men  to  inquire  whether  they  did  meet 
again  or  not,  and,  if  they  did,  in  what  circum- 
stances ? — If  he  has,  I  will  endeavor  to  gratify 
his  curiosity. 

Ah,  fairy  land  of  youth !  where  the  bright,  joy 
ous  sun  shines  ever  cloudless — where  friendship 
and  love,  with  charms  that  seem  immortal,  con- 
duct our  easy,  unsuspecting  steps  through  paths 
bedight  with  ever-springing  flowers  ;  and  Hope, 
the  sweet-voiced  siren  Hope,  points  to  vistas  of 
bliss  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  Who  can  quit 
these  enchanted  precincts,  and  not  cast  "  a 
longing,  lingering  look  behind?"  Through  no 
region  so  delectable  do  mortals  pass  in  their 
earthly  pilgrimage.  Uphill  and  rough  is  Man- 
hood's toilsome  road ;  and  if  it  end  not,  as  it 
most  frequently  does,  in  disappointment,  but 
lead  to  Fortune's  fane,  where  the  goddess  show- 
ers honors  and  riches  on  her  minions:  when  the 


BOYHOOD    AxND    MANHOOD.  211 

favorite  votary  has  arrived  there,  and  obtained 
the  long-sought  recompense,  labor  and  age  have 
probably  weakened  his  powers  of  enjoyment,  and 
the  greatest  pleasure  belonging  to  his  triumph  is 
found  to  have  been  in  the  anticipation  and  pros- 
pect of  it. 

Late  in  the  spring  of  the  year  ,  Sir  Wil- 
liam Carey  reached  the  shore  of  his  native 
country,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  thirty-five 
years.  It  is  unnecessary  for  my  present  purpose 
to  detail  the  various  splendid  military  services 
which,  during  that  period,  had  entitled  him  to 
the  character  of  an  eminent  commander,  and 
conferred  on  him  the  rank  of  lieutenant-general, 
the  grand  cross  of  the  Bath,  and  considerable 
wealth.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  pleas- 
urable feelings  of  Sir  William  on  his  arrival  in 
England.  Fame,  rank,  and  riches,  united  to 
welcome  his  return,  and  to  reward  his  toils 
He  was  now  about  to  enjoy  again  the  long- 
remembered  and  often  wished-for  scenery  and 
manners  of  Britain,  and  to  see  and  converse 
with  the  loved  associates  of  his  youth,  whom  he 
had  never  forgotten.  Foremost  among  these,  in 
his  recollection,  stood  Charles  Herbert.  The 
epistolary  correspondence  between  them  had 
been  pretty  regular  during  some  years  after 
their  separation,  and  had  conveyed  the  warmest 


12  BOYHOOD    AND    MANHOOD. 

sentiments  of  mutual  affection.  It  had  after- 
wards been  somewhat  interrupted  by  the  active 
engagements  of  both,  and  by  Carey's  employ- 
ment in  a  remote  and  hostile  province.  During 
the  last  six  years,  it  had  entirely  ceased  on  the 
part  of  Herbert,  and  the  last  letters  of  Carey  had 
been  returned,  as  sent  to  one  unknown  where 
they  were  addressed.  This  seemed  strange  and 
mysterious  to  Carey.  Herbert  was  a  man  of 
landed  property,  and  had  been  some  time  in 
parliament;  how  had  he  so  suddenly  vanished? 
There  had  been  no  tidings  of  his  death.  Carey's 
conclusion  was,  that  he  and  his  family,  (for  Her- 
bert had  informed  his  friend  of  his  marriage, 
about  five  years  after  their  separation,  and  sub- 
sequently of  the  birth  of  a  son  and  a  daughter,) 
like  many  others,  had  sought  the  continent,  after 
the  war,  and  were  travelling  or  residing  in  some 
foreign  nation.  Still,  the  utter  cessation  of  his 
correspondence  was  unaccountable,  and  the  neg- 
lect of  an  old  friend  painful  to  Sir  William. 

Sir  William  resolved,  when  he  had  adjust- 
ed some  concerns  which  required  immediate 
attention,  to  prosecute  his  inquiries  in  person 
after  the  lost  friend  of  his  youth.  He  thought 
the  most  likely  place  of  doing  this  effectually, 

would   be  on  the  estate  in   shire,  which 

Herbert  had  inherited  from  his  ancestors,  who 


BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD.        213 

had  for  centuries  resided  on  it ;  though  his 
inquiries  had  already  informed  him  that  it  was 
no  longer  in  his  possession.  Thither  he  accord- 
ingly intended  to  proceed,  as  soon  as  he  should 
have  it  in  his  power  so  to  do.  In  the  mean  time, 
to  be  near  when  business  required  his  presence, 
and  yet  enjoy  retirement  during  his  leisure 
hours,  he  hired  as  a  retreat  one  of  those  delight- 
ful villas,  which  embellish  the  neighborhood  of 
Richmond ;  led  to  the  spot  by  the  pleasing 
reminiscences  of  early  life,  rather  than  by  any 
hope  of  finding  Herbert,  whose  father's  residence 
there  had  been  merely  temporary.  The  very 
first  evening  of  his  occupation  of  this  residence, 
crossing  the  bridge,  he  visited  the  green  bank 
of  the  Thames,  on  the  side  opposite  to  Rich- 
mond, seeking  the  spot  on  which  he  had  ram- 
bled with  his  youthful  friend  five-and-thirty 
years  before,  on  the  evening  preceding  their 
separation.  Little  alteration  had  occurred  in 
the  scene  before  him.  The  villas  on  the  summit 
of  the  hill  glittered  with  the  rays  of  the  sun  as 
gayly,  the  river  flowed  as  smoothly,  and  present- 
ed as  cheerful  a  picture  of  aquatic  enjoyment,  as 
in  his  boyish  days.  "  Alas  ! "  said  Sir  William, 
"  is  there  no  change  here  but  in  myself?  is  there 
nothing  lost  but  my  friend  ?"  Rapt  in  thought, 
he  proceeded  till  he  came  to  a  bench,  under  a 


214         BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD. 

drooping  willow,  on  which  was  seated  a  person 
of  gentlemanly  appearance,  but  of  wild  and 
melancholy  aspect,  who  hastily  arose  on  Sir 
William's  approach,  as  if  to  avoid  company. 
Sir  William  apologized  for  his  intrusion,  and 
offered  to  withdraw,  rather  than  disturb  him. 
The  civility  of  his  expressions,  and  kindness  of 
his  tone,  seemed  to  affect  the  stranger,  who 
resumed  his  seat,  and  courteously  requested  Sir 
William  to  be  seated  also ;  which  invitation  he 
did  not  decline.  At  this  moment,  the  city 
barge,  like  a  huge  naval  palace  in  all  its  pomp 
and  splendor,  appeared  slowly  floating  down  the 
stream,  with  its  gorgeous  ensigns  waving  in  the 
wind,  and  loud  and  exciting  music,  reechoed  by 
the  surrounding  woods  and  hills.  On  board, 
mirth  and  pleasure  seemed  to  reign  unchecked. 
Some  of  the  company  were  gazing  with  delight 
on  the  surrounding  beauteous  landscape — some 
were  engaged  in  cheerful  conversation — some 
were  enjoying  the  luxuries  of  the  table,  and  the 
exhilarating  glass — and  others  preparing  for  the 
sprightly  dance.  A  crowd  of  pleasure-boats,  of 
every  description — the  ample  barge — the  swift 
six-oared  cutter — the  light  skiff — the  unsociable 
funny — nay,  even  the  Indian  canoe,  were  seen 
around  the  majestic  vessel,  swelling  its  triumph, 
like   the   depicted   minor   sea-deities  swarming 


BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD.        215 

about  the  car  of  Neptune.  "  How  beauteous 
the  scene  around  us ! — how  gay  are  those  within 
its  circle ! "  observed  Sir  William ;  "  I  seem  to 
have  dropped  into  an  elysium,  a  paradise,  where 
all  are  happy."  The  stranger  started  at  the 
sound;  "Happy!"  he  exclaimed,  with  emotions 
that  shook  his  frame,  and  seemed  to  rouse  a 
slumbering  madness.  "  Call  you  these  mas- 
queraders  happy,  who  seek  in  revelry's  tawdry 
disguise  to  hide  for  a  few  hours  their  withered, 
drooping  hearts,  teeming  with  care  and  sorrow  ? 
To-morrow  strips  the  vizor ;  view  them,  and  see 
them  truly.  The  rich  man,  with  hardened, 
sordid  heart  and  anxious  brow,  toiling  to  multi- 
ply his  superabundant  store,  and  ready,  for  that 
purpose,  to  snatch  the  last  morsel  from  the 
starving  mouth  even  of  his  friend  and  brother 
Call  you  him  happy?  And  then  the  wretcn 
(and  many  such  that  pageant  holds)  tottering  on 
the  brink  of  ruin,  clinging,  in  trembling  agony, 
to  some  rotten  bough  of  unsound  hope — what 
misery  is  his ! — he  views  the  gulf  of  poverty 
below,  and  knows  no  hand — no,  not  of  dearest, 
most  obliged  friend — will  be  extended,  to  lift 
him  up  again  to  the  heights  from  which  he  has 
fallen ;  rather  will  men  trample  on  the  victim, 
as  he  lies  helpless  and  prostrate.  And  this  fair 
scene — this  elysium — this  paradise,  perhaps  to- 


216  BOYHOOD    AND    MANHOOD. 

morrow,  you  will  see  deformed  with  dismal 
tempests ;  those  now  smiling  hills  shall  glare 
with  the  red  lightning's  flash,  and  instead  of  the 
cheerful  sound  of  horns  and  flutes,  shall  reecho 
the  roar  of  the  wind,  and  the  fearful  rattling 
of  the  thunder.  Alas !  this  world  affords  no 
paradise.  Rather,  man,  the  demon  man, 
converts  into  hell  its  sweetest  scenes."  This 
discontented  and  misanthropic  harangue,  and 
the  vehemence  with  which  it  was  uttered,  gave 
Sir  William  just  reason  to  suspect  the  insanity 
of  his  companion;  and  the  grief  and  despon- 
dency which  his  pale  and  care-worn  features 
betokened  at  the  conclusion,  awakened  interest 
and  pity.  Suddenly,  an  elderly  woman  of 
decent  appearance,  approaching  the  stranger 
with  a  curtsey,  requested  him,  in  terms  such  as 
a  respectful  servant  would  use  to  a  beloved 
master,  to  return  home :  seemingly  absorbed 
in  deep  and  mournful  meditation,  he  noticed 
her  not.  She  again  addressed  him,  adding, 
"  Sir,  Miss  Herbert  is  waiting  for  you  at  the 
tea-table."  This  seemed  to  awaken  him  to 
intelligence,  and  rising  with  a  sigh,  he  cour- 
teously bowed  to  Sir  William.  The  mention 
of  the  name  of  Herbert  had  also  roused  Sir 
William;  "I  beg  pardon,"  said  he,  "but  the 
name  which  has  been  mentioned,  excites  in  me 


BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD.        217 

most  powerful  interest ;  I  am  seeking  an  old 
friend  of  that  appellation — Mr.  Charles  Herbert, 

once  of ,  in   snire.     My  own  name 

is  William  Carey."  "I  am  the  wretch  you 
seek,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  Carey !  are  you 
William  Carey,  the  loved  friend  of  the  happy 
morning  of  my  life?"  They  were  instantly 
locked  in  the  embrace  of  each  other,  with 
emotions   too   powerful    for   description. 

Sir  William  accompanied  his  friend  to  the 
small,  homely,  though  neat  cottage,  which  was 
his  present  residence,  and  was  introduced  to  his 
daughter,  Mary  Herbert,  the  radiance  of  whose 
beauty  was  somewhat  tempered,  though  not 
obscured,  by  the  sorrows  she  had  endured. 
Mr.  Herbert,  exhausted  by  the  violent  emotions 
the  meeting  with  his  friend  had  occasioned,  was 
prevailed  on  to  retire  early  to  repose.  This 
afforded  opportunity  to  his  daughter  to  give  his 
friend  an  outline  of  the  misfortunes  which  had 
subdued  him.  They  had  their  origin  in  the 
vices  of  his  darling  and  only  son;  who,  too 
much  indulged  in  early  youth,  forsook  the  path 
of  duty  and  rectitude,  and  squandered  in  profli- 
gacy, and  at  the  gambling-table,  all  he  and  his 
father  possessed, — for  his  father  was  too  fond 
of  him,  not  to  free  him  from  present  disgrace 
and  difficulty,  at  any  price  in  his  power.  When 
19 


218         BOYHOOD  AND  MANHOOD. 

the  family  estate,  and  all  other  property,  had 
been  sacrificed,  this  foolish  young  man,  still 
desperately  pursuing  his  old  course,  found  no 
means  of  extricating  himself  from  the  conse- 
quences but  suicide.  This  sad  event  had 
occasioned  the  derangement  of  his  father ;  and 
the  double  misfortune  of  her  son's  wretched 
end,  and  of  her  husband's  malady,  had  brought 
her  mother  speedily  to  the  grave.  Mr.  Herbert 
and  his  daughter,  attended  by  one  faithful 
domestic,  who  had  lived  in  the  family  from 
childhood,  and  would  not  be  dismissed,  had 
retired  to  the  cottage  in  which  they  were  now 
dwelling,  supported  by  a  pittance  left  to  Mary 
by  her  godmother.  Miss  Herbert's  dutiful  and 
unremitting  attention,  under  the  direction  of 
a  skilful  and  friendly  physician,  had  greatly 
mitigated  Mr.  Herbert's  disorder,  and  soothed 
his  frenzy  into  melancholy.  Such  was  the 
story  Sir  William  heard,  of  his  friend's  mis- 
fortunes. 

Having  now  related  the  reunion  of  these 
friends,  I  will  only  add,  that  there  was  no 
separation  till  the  death  of  Herbert,  five  years 
afterwards.  His  life,  while  it  lasted,  was 
cheered,  and  rendered  as  comfortable  as  the 
re-collection  of  past  events  would  permit,  by  the 
affectionate  attentions  of  his  daughter,  and  of 


BOYHOOD    AND    MANHOOD.  219 

his  friend.  A  year  after  his  decease,  Mary 
Herbert  was  married  to  a  cousin  of  Sir  William 
Carey,  and  distinguished  herself  by  the  exem- 
plary discharge  of  her  duties  as  a  wife  and 
mother,  no  less  than  she  had  previously  done  by 
the  pious  fulfilment  of  those  incumbent  on  her 
as  a  daughter.  Sir  William  lived  to  old  age, 
almost  entirely  in  the  bosom  of  the  family, 
cherishing  to  the  last,  and  in  the  third  gene- 
ration, the  affection  he  had  ever  entertained  for 
the  dear,  though  unfortunate  friend  of  his  youth, 
and  bequeathing  to  the  descendants  of  that 
friend  the  bulk  of  his  plentiful  fortune. 


220 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  HEART 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  CORN  LAW  RHYMES. 

Flowers  !  wintry  flowers  ! — the  child  is  dead, 

The  mother  cannot  speak  : 
Oh !  softly  couch  its  little  head, 

Or  Mary  s  neart  will  break. 

Amid  those  curls  of  sunny  hair, 

The  pale  pink  riband  twine, 
And  on  the  snowy  bosom  there, 

Place  this  white  lock  of  mine. 

How  like  a  form  in  cold  white  stone, 

The  coffined  infant  lies ! 
Look,  mother,  on  thy  little  one, 

And  tears  will  fill  thine  eyes. 

She  cannot  weep — more  faint  she  grows, 

More  deadly  wan  and  still ; — 
Flowers !  Oh,  a  flower — a  winter  rose, 

That  tiny  hand  to  fill. 


FLOWERS    FOR    THE    HEART.  221 

Go,  search  the  fields !  the  lichen  wet 

Bends  o'er  the  unfailing  well  ■ 
Beneath  the  furrow  lingers  yet 

The  crimson  pimpernel. 

Peeps  not  a  snow-drop  in  the  bower, 

Where  never  froze  the  spring  1 
A  daisy? — Ah!  bring  childhood's  flower, — 

The  half-blown  daisy  bring. 

Yes !  lay  the  little  daisy's  head 

Beside  the  little  cheek ; 
Oh,  haste ! — the  last  of  five  is  dead ! — 

The  childless  cannot  speak ! 

Ebenezer  Elliots 
19* 


2m 


THE    LABURNUM. 

"  Look,  mother,  at  that  pretty  tree, 
So  full  of  shining  yellow  flowers ; 

The  very  ground  beneath  it,  see, 
Is  covered  with  its  golden  showers. 

"  I've  flowers  of  every  varied  hue. 
The  lily  pale,  the  cnmson  rose, 

The  heath-bell,  and  the  violet  blue, 
But  none  as  beautiful  as  tnose. 

"  Sit  down,  dear  mother,  while  I  pluck 
Some  branches  off — you  need  not  fear  ; 

No  thorns  are  on  its  stem  ;  and  look, 
Not  even  a  single  bee  is  near. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  reason  is, 

That  while  the  busy  things  are  humming 
Round  every  other  flower,  to  this 

Not  one  of  them  should  think  of  coming 

"  My  child,  each  little  bee  is  taught, 

By  secret  but  unerring  power, 
To  shun  whate'er  with  ill  is  fraught, 

And  only  taste  the  healthful  flower. 


THE    LABURNUM.  223 

"  And  well  the  busy  creatures  know, 

That  in  each  bright  and  glittering  wreath 

Which  decks  the  fair  Laburnum's  brow, 
The  honey-dew  is  mixed  with  death." 

"  Dear  mother,  how  can  this  be  true  ? 

Would  God  e'er  make  a  thing  so  fair, 
So  beautiful  in  shape  and  hue, 

Only  to  hide  a  poison  there  1 " 

"  Alas,  my  son,  too  soon  is  known 

The  bitter  truth,  as  on  we  rove 
Through  this  strange  world,  that  not  alone 

The  fairest  things  deserve  our  love. 

"  The  humble  flowers*  beneath  our  feet 
You  crush  without  one  pitying  thought ; 

And  yet  no  other  plant  we  meet, 

With  balm  of  such  rare  worth  is  fraught. 

"  Oh,  thus  let  nature's  marvels  speak 

A  useful  lesson  to  my  son  ; 
Think  of  the  cautious  bees,  nor  seek 

Such  pleasures  as  the  wise  must  shun." 

May  3d,  1830. 

*  St.  John's  Root. 


224 


THE    GIRLS'     SCHOOL. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  thou  care-worn  man ; 
Though  thy  lip  be  pale,  and  thy  cheek  be  wan  ; 
Though  thy  steps  have  wandered  too  far  and  wide 
From  the  sunny  slope  of  youth's  green  hill-side; 
Though  thy  heart  be  cold,  and  thy  feelings  chilled 
To  the  kindling  hope  with  which  youth  is  filled, 
Yet  come  and  look  on  this  blessed  sight, 
Till  thy  pulses  waken  to  new  delight. 

If  e'er,  in  life's  morn,  thou  hast  sought  to  trace 
The  heart's  glad  fancies  in  some  loved  face  ; 
If  e'er  thou  hast  found  it  joy  to  look 
On  the  guileless  brow,  like  an  opened  book  ; 
If  e'er  thou  hast  known  the  most  holy  bliss 
That  thrills  in  a  father's  sacred  kiss, — 
Then  steal  from  the  world's  chilling  blight  away, 
And  recall  the  dreams  of  life's  earlier  day. 

The  loveliest  forms  that  fair  childhood  wears 
Ere  earth  has  shadowed  its  brow  with  cares, 
From  the  light  that  beams  in  the  infant's  eye, 
And  the  smile  that  it  wears,  though  it  knows  not 
why, 


THE  girls'  school.  225 

To  the  deeper  shadow  of  feeling  hid 

'Neath  the  blooming  maiden's  half-drooping  lid — 

All  these  are  here — on  no  fairer  sight 

Has  the  sun  e'er  opened  his  eye  of  light. 

And  thinkest  thou  'twill  waken  the  pulse  of  joy 
To  look  on  the  purity  earth  must  destroy  ? 
Is  it  joy  to  look  on  the  bounding  deer, 
When  we  know  that  the  hound  and  the  hunter 

are  near  ? 
Does  the  lily  seem  fragrant,  the  red  rose  bright> 
When  we  see  in  their  bosom  the  cankerworm's 

blight? 
How  then  can  I  joy  in  those  faces  so  fair, 
When  I  see  but  new  victims  to  sorrow  and  care? 

They  are  doomed  to  bear  woman's  weary  lot, 
With  its  wasting  griefs,  such  as  man  knoweth 

not ; 
The  time  will  come  when  their  look  will  be  cast 
With  fruitless  regret  on  the  sunny  past ; 
In  sadness  their  thoughts  will  retrace  life's  track, 
Nor  bring  one  leaflet  of  promise  back. 

Nay,  hush  thee,  hush  thee,  thou  care-worn  man — 
Though  sad  and  evil  thy  life's  short  span, 
Oh !  clear  thine  eyes  from  the  mist  of  tears, 
And  look  not  back  through  the  vista  of  years. 


226  THE    GIRLS     SCHOOL. 

The  fair  young  creatures  before  thee  now 
Bear  the  signet  of  God  on  each  innocent  brow, 
And  to  us  the  soul-stirring  duty  is  given 
To  fix  their  hearts  and  their  hopes  on  heaven. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 


'.Fltillips.Kew  Y,nk,.ajier  a   1'uTnrc  by  SirJoshua  EgawldsXRU* 


y/ //////a//// 


227 


A    LITTLE    CHILD. 

Written  in  the  first  page  of  an  Albam,  for  a  new-iorn  infant,  in 
•  hich  the  parents  proposed  to  collect  contributions  fc  its  futtrre 
aelight  and  improvement.    Matt,  xviii.  4. 

BY  JAMES    MONTGOMERY,   ESQ. 

A  little  child  ! — who  dare  despise 

These  little  ones  of  thine  1 
Precious,  Lord  Jesus,  in  thine  eyes, 

May  they  be  so  in  mine  ! 

For  such  a  one, — 'twixt  hope  and  fear 

On  this  unwritten  book, 
With  joy, — whose  emblem  is  a  tear 

Sparkling  in  grief, — I  look. 

For  pure  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 

Meek  innocent !  to-day, 
My  heart  can  see  in  thy  young  heart 

A  poor,  frail  child  of  clay. 

All  I  have  felt  and  mourned  within, 

Through  many  a  bitter  year, 
The  rank,  unquickened  seeds  of  sin 

Must  soon  in  thee  appear. 


228  A    LITTLE    CHILD. 

Oh  !  may  the  grace  that  followed  me 

Along  thy  path  be  seen  ; 
But  thou — but  thou  more  faithful  be 

Than  I — than  I  have  been  ! 

Art  thou  a  Father's  child  ? — Then  live 
To  gladden  long  his  sight ; 

Art  thou  a  Mother's  child  ? — Then  give 
Her  bosom  true  delight. 

In  wisdom  as  in  stature  grow, 
In  love,  joy,  hope,  increase  ; 

Stayed  be  thy  mind  on  God  below, 
And  kept  in  perfect  peace. 


229 


THE  REMEMBRANCE  OF   YOUTH 
IS   A   SIGH. 

Oh  !   yes,  we  may  weep  over  moments  departed, 
And  look  on  the  past  with  a  sorrowful  eye, 
For  who,  roving  on  through  the  world,  weary- 
hearted, 
But  feel  the  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh  1 

Though  earth  still  may  wear  all  its  verdure  and 

flowers, 
Thougn  our  pathway  may  smile  with  a  bright 

summer's  sky, 
Yet  the  serpent  lies  hid  in  life's  sunniest  bowers, 
And  still  the  remembrance  of  youth  is  a  sigh. 

Then   surely   the   heart,  whose    best   pleasures 

have  vanished, 
As  spring  buds  depart  when  cold  winter  draws 

nigh, 
The  bosom  whence  hope's  sweet  illusions  are 

banished, 
Must  know  the  remembrance  of  youth  in  a  sigh. 

Emma  C.  Embury. 
20 


230 


STANZAS, 

Written  among  the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson  River 

BY   GEORGE    P.   MORRIS. 

Oh  !  would  that  she  were  here, 

These  hills  and  dales  among, 
Where  vocal  groves  are  gayly  mocked 

By  Echo's  airy  tongue  ; 
Where  jocund  Nature  smiles 

In  all  her  gay  attire, 
Amid  deep-tangled  wilds 

Of  hawthorn  and  sweet-brier. 
Oh !  would  that  she  were  here, 

That  fair  and  gentle  thing, 
Whose  words  are  musical  as  strains 

Breathed  by  the  wind-harp's  string. 

Oh  !  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  the  free  waters  leap, 
Shouting,  in  their  joyousness, 

Adown  the  rocky  steep  ; 
Where  rosy  Zephyr  lingers 

All  the  live-long  day, 


STANZAS.  231 

With  health  upon  his  pinions, 

And  gladness  in  his  way — 
Oh !  would  that  she  were  here  ! — 

Sure  Eden's  garden-plot 
Did  not  embrace  more  varied  charms 

Than  this  romantic  spot ! 

Oh  !  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  frolic  by  the  hours, 
Rife  with  the  song  of  bee  and  bird, 

The  perfume  of  the  flowers ; 
Where  beams  of  peace  and  love, 

And  radiant  beauty's  glow, 
Are  pictured  in  the  sky  above, 

And  in  the  lake  below. 
Oh  !  would  that  she  were  here  ! — 

The  nymphs  of  this  bright  scene, 
With  song,  and  dance,  and  revelry, 

Would  crown  Bianca  queen. 

August,  1834. 


232 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK. 

Francis  Ogilvey  was  the  companion  of  my 
boyhood.  Endowed  by  nature  with  the  rarest 
gifts,  which  were  cultivated  with  the  greatest 
assiduity  and  success,  he  nevertheless  seemed  to 
be  a  child  of  misfortune,  and  to  have  inherited 
his  splendid  talents  but  to  show  to  the  world, 
that  happiness  does  not  always  consist  in  mental 
superiority.  From  his  earliest  childhood  he  had 
an  exquisite  taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  and, 
when  a  mere  lad,  was  wont  to  climb  the  loftiest 
cliffs  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  father's  mansion, 
to  view  the  out-spread  landscape — the  winding 
river — the  distant  ocean,  covered  with  whitened 
canvass  ;  and  many  a  dangerous  fall  did  he 
receive  in  these  perilous  adventures.  When  a 
child,  I  have  often  wandered  with  him  down  to 
the  ocean's  side,  and  while  I  was  amusing  my- 
self with  gathering  shells  and  pebbles,  he  was 
employed  in  watching  the  crested  waves,  as  they 
broke  and  rolled  at  his  feet.  No  sight  was 
sought  with  such  avidity  and  eager  delight  by 
him   as  the  ocean,  during  and  after    a   storm, 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK.  233 

when,  lashed  into  foam,  H  rolled  its  mountain 
waves  in  thunder  against  the  overhanging  cliff. 

With  such  a  passion  for  all  that  is  beautiful 
and  sublime  in  nature,  it  is  not  strange  that 
Frank  had  an  ardent  desire  to  travel,  and  see 
for  himself  the  various  wonders  scattered  in 
such  magnificent  profusion  over  the  four  quar- 
ters of  the  globe.  This  was  his  waking  dream. 
In  sleep,  he  seemed  to  revel  in  the  actual  enjoy- 
ment of  the  reality.  But  how  could  he  leave 
his  parents,  who  doted  on  him  with  more  than 
parental  affection? — his  sister,  who,  with  himself, 
constituted  almost  their  only  riches  ?  He  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  give  a  momentary 
pang  to  those  whom  he  loved,  and  who  had 
watched  over  the  tender  years  of  his  infancy. 
He,  therefore,  after  having  completed  his  pre- 
paratory education,  commenced  the  study  of 
medicine  with  a  distinguished  physician  residing 
in  his  native  place.  By  diligent  application  to 
his  studies,  he  was  enabled,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  to  graduate,  with  distinguished  applause,  at 

the  university  of .     During  the  last  year  of 

his  studies,  he  devoted  considerable  time,  under 
the  direction  of  an  able  teacher,  to  the  science 
of  drawing ;  not  only  that  he  might  be  able  to 
preserve  a  faithful  representation  of  the  various 
forms  of  disease,  but  also  of  such  natural  objects, 
and  works  of  art,  as  should  fall  in  his  way. 


234  THE    DRAWING-BOOK. 

By  the  urgent  solicitation  of  a  few  devoted 
friends,  he  was  prevailed  on,  contrary  to  the 
aspirings  of  an  ambitious  mind,  which  prompted 
him  to  aim  at  eminence  in  the  neighboring 
metropolis,  to  settle  down,  in  the  practice  of  his 
profession,  in  his  native  village.  But  ah !  how 
different  from  the  study  of  his  favorite  science  ! 
Instead  of  indulging  his  fine  speculative  genius 
in  the  formation  of  theories,  or  scanning  those 
of  celebrated  authors ;  or  in  the  pleasing  em- 
ployment of  experimenting  in  his  laboratory  in 
the  investigation  of  the  laws  of  matter; — he  was 
now  called  to  the  bedside  of  the  sick  and  dying; 
now  the  life  of  a  beloved  and  only  child  was 
trusted  to  his  skill ;  now,  that  of  a  fond  wife 
and  tender  mother,  surrounded  by  a  weeping 
husband  and  her  prattling  little  ones  !  The  re- 
sponsibilities seemed  too  weighty  for  his  tender 
sensibilities ;  the  young  physician's  mind  was 
too  easily  thrown  off  its  balance  by  the  occur- 
rence of  accidents ;  and  he  would  weep,  like  a 
child,  at  the  loss  of  a  patient  whose  recovery 
was  beyond  the  resources  of  human  art. 

During  the  second  year  of  his  business-life, 
Francis  married  Caroline  Montrose,  the  daugh- 
ter of  his  father's  earliest  and  most  intimate 
friend — a  companion  of  congenial  spirit  and 
beautiful  person — the  flame  of  his  boyhood,  and 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK.  235 

the  belle  of  the  whole  country  around.  For  a 
few  years,  life  passed  pleasantly  along ;  his  pro- 
fessional duties  were  arduous,  and  habit  had,  in 
a  measure,  reconciled  him  to  scenes  which,  at 
first,  made  him  unhappy,  and  wish  he  had  been 
any  thing  else  but  a  doctor.  A  highly-malignant 
fever,  at  length,  broke  out  in  his  immediate 
neighborhood ;  his  exertions  were  unremitted ; 
day  an  1  night  he  ministered  to  the  sick ;  and 
those  whom  he  could  not  restore,  he  soothed  by 
kind  attentions,  and  thus  smoothed  their  pas- 
sage to  the  grave.  In  a  few  days  the  disease 
attacked  his  parents,  and  soon  triumphed  over 
them.  Next,  his  wife  fell  a  victim  to  the  ruth- 
less destroyer  ;  and  thus,  in  one  short  week,  he 
found  himself  deprived  of  nearly  all  that  his 
heart  held  dear  in  this  world,  with  the  exception 
of  two  children,  one  of  two  years,  and  the  other 
a  few  weeks  old. 

After  time  had,  in  some  degree,  blunted  the 
keen  edge  of  his  grief,  his  desire  to  travel  again 
returned  with  greater  strength  than  ever.  His 
sister,  who  had  married  a  wealthy  merchant, 
having  no  children  of  her  own,  proposed  to 
adopt  his  little  ones,  and  bring  them  up,  to 
which  Ogilvey  gladly  assented. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  month  of 
June,  18 — ,  when  I  was  standing  on  one  of  the 


236  THE    DRAWING-BOOK. 

quays  of  New  York,  admiring  the  shipping  of 
every  description,  and  of  all  nations ;  some  just 
arriving,  others  hoisting  sail ;  the  cheerful  jack- 
tars  climbing  the  rigging,  or  raising  the  heavy 
packages  from  the  hold,  with  the  hearty  cry  of 
"  Heave-yo!" — when,  whom  should  I  meet  but 
my  old  friend  Frank,  with  a  porter  carrying  a 
trunk  on  board  the  ship  Canton,  bound  to  China. 
He  told  me  he  had  bade  his  friends  farewell,  and 
expected  to  sail  within  a  few  hours.  I  accom- 
panied him  on  board  the  vessel,  where  we 
recalled  scenes  long  gone  by — the  happy  days 
of  our  childhood — and  pledged  ourselves  to 
each  other,  to  write  as  often  as  opportunity 
offered. 

Time  rolled  on.  I  often  thought  of  Frank, 
but  not  a  word  did  I  hear  from  him.  I  sought 
out  the  captain,  on  the  return  of  his  ship,  and 
he  informed  me  that  "the  doctor,"  as  he  called 
him,  left  him  at  Canton,  intending  to  travel 
through  China,  Hindostan,  Persia,  and  Asia 
Minor,  to  Constantinople,  and  from  thence  over 
land  to  Paris. 

In  the  month  of  September,  18 — ,  while  sit- 
ting in  my  study,  a  sealed  package  and  letter 
were  placed  on  my  table.  The  letter  was 
marked  "  Havre,"  and  bore  on  it  the  name  of 
the  American   consul,    by   whom   it   had   been 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK.  237 

forwarded.  I  eagerly  broke  the  seal,  and,  look- 
ing at  the  signature,  read,  Francis  Ogilvey. 
The  letter  ran  as  follows  : — 

i 

"  Paris,  July  15th,  1832. 

"  My  dear  Charles, 

"  You  cannot  upbraid  me  with  breaking 
my  promise.  You  know  I  told  you,  when  we 
parted,  that  I  would  write  whenever  an  opportu- 
nity presented.  Until  within  these  few  days,  no 
chance  of  sending  a  line  has  occurred,  since  I 
left  New  York,  eleven  years  ago  last  June. 
And  as  this  is  the  first,  so  it  is  the  last  you  will 
ever  receive  from  me ;  for  while  you  are  reading 
these  lines,  the  hand  that  penned  them  is  cold 
in  death.  The  fatal  cholera,  which  has  devas- 
tated Asia  and  Europe,  is  now  sweeping  over 
this  devoted  city.     I  have  entered  the  hospital 

Des as  assistant  physician,  in  order  that  I 

may  have  a  favorable  opportunity  of  seeing  and 
treating  this  dreadful  malady,  which  is  probably 
destined,  in  its  resistless  progress,  to  visit  our 
own  happy  shores.  I  have  directed  my  friend, 
Mr.  F.,  in  case  I  should  fall  a  victim,  to  forward 
this  letter,  with  a  book  of  drawings,  descriptive 
of  my  wanderings,  to  you,  through  the  Ameri- 
can consul  at  Havre.  This  is  all  the  legacy  I 
leave   to   my  dear   little   Henry  and  Jane ;   to 


238  THE    DRAWING-BOOK. 

whom  you  will  please  deliver  it,  without  open- 
ing, as  a  trifling  memento  of  a  father's  love. 
I  had  hoped  to  have  lived  to  have  once  more 
clasped  them  in  my  arms,  and  spend  the  re- 
mainder of  my  days  among  the  friends  of  my 
youth ;  but  Providence  has  ordered  it  otherwise, 
and  I  must  submit.  Kiss  the  little  angels  for 
me,  if  still  living,  and  tell  them,  that  after  a  few 
years  at  farthest,  if  they  live  good  and  virtuous 
lives,  they  will  meet  their  father  and  mother  in 
a  bright  and  happier  land,  where  there  will  be 
no  more  separations,  nor  sickness,  nor  death. 
"  Your  truly  affectionate 

"  Francis  Ogilvey." 

As  I  read  this  letter,  a  gush  of  tears  bore 
testimony  to  the  ardent  attachment  which  I  bore 
to  this  estimable  young  man.  Though  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  many  a  year,  yet  often  my 
memory  called  him  before  me,  and  I  contem- 
plated, with  singular  delight,  his  open,  manly, 
and  cheerful  countenance,  his  many  amiable 
qualities,  and  his  noble  bearing; — I  have  now  a 
painful  duty  to  perform, — a  message  to  bear  to 
his  children,  which  would  rend  their  hearts, — 
a  mournful  errand  to  convey  to  his  sister,  from 
one  fondly  remembered,  and  tenderly  beloved 
by  her — a  brother  worthy  of  a  sister's  love. 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK.  239 

At    an    early    hour    the  ensuing   evening,    I 
repaired  to  her  house.     On  entering  the  parlor, 
the  first  persons  that  met  my  view  were  Henry 
and    Jane    Ogilvey,    seated    on    the    sofa,   and 
getting  their  lessons   for  the  morrow.      Henry 
was  now  thirteen,  and  Jane  eleven  years  of  age. 
Soon  Mrs.  G.  appeared;  I  delivered  to  her  the 
packet,  and  was  only  able  to  articulate,  through 
the   excess   of   my  emotion,  "  Your  brother!" 
On  breaking  the  seal,  she  found  it  to  contain  a 
large  book  of  drawings,  executed  in  the  most 
masterly  style,  some  in  crayon,  some  in  India 
ink,  and  others  colored, — representing  various 
scenes  in  different  parts  of  Asia  and  Europe, 
and    curious    objects   of   natural    history    and 
human    art,    with    copious    references    on   the 
opposite  page,  explaining  the  things  described ; 
thus  detailing  to  the  eye  a  tour  of  more  than 
seven  thousand  miles,  through  the  most  interest- 
ing countries  of  the  world.     But  where  was  the 
artist  who  had  sent  them  such  an    invaluable 
present  from  across  the  wide-rolling  ocean  ? — he 
could  be  none  other  than  their  father,  of  whom 
they  had  heard  so  much ; — but  when  was  he  to 
return  1 — where  was  he  at  that  moment  ? — why 
did  he  stay  away  so  long?     These  and  many 
other  questions  were  earnestly  asked  by  little 
Jane,   whose   soft   blue   eyes   and    flaxen    hair 


240  THE    DRAWING-BOOK. 

reminded  me  of  her  mother,  when  I  used  to  be 
her  partner  in  the  giddy  dance.  I  made — I 
could  make  no  reply ;  but,  taking  my  hat,  and 
placing  Ogilvey's  letter  to  me  in  the  hands  of 
his  sister,  with  a  heart  ready  to  burst  with 
emotion,  I  abruptly  hurried  away. 

The  reader  must  imagine  the  remaining 
scenes  of  that  evening.  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  inquire  what  took  place  after  I  left ; 
weeks  were  suffered  to  elapse  before  I  again 
ventured  to  renew  my  visit.  Once  more  I 
found  the  lovely  children  of  my  old  friend 
seated  by  the  sofa,  with  the  faithful  house-dog, 
old  Veto,  watching  at  their  feet,  while  they  were 
busily  employed  in  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
their  lamented  father's  sketch-book,  and  talking 
of  the  various  objects  and  curiosities  there 
described.  On  examining  the  drawings,  1 
found  them  of  the  highest  excellence ;  the  first 
part  containing  sketches  illustrative  of  Chinese 
manners  and  customs — the  second,  of  Hindos- 
tan — the  third,  of  Thibet — and  so  on,  of  all  the 
nations  and  kingdoms  through  which  he  trav- 
elled in  his  journeying  to  the  west.  The  first 
drawing  contained  an  external  and  an  internal 
view  of  a  Chinese  pagoda,  with  various  compart- 
ments, holding  idols  of  barbarous  models,  be- 
fore which  incense  was  burning,  and  numerous 


THE    DRAWING-BOOK.  241 

deities  were  prostrated.  The  second  represent- 
ed the  various  species  of  Chinese  water-craft, 
such  as  the  junk,  chop-boat,  &c. ;  while  the  third 
displayed  the  various  costumes  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  celestial  empire,  from  the  emperor  on  his 
throne  to  the  meanest  peasant,  &,c.  On  looking 
at  the  labors  of  my  deceased  friend,  I  could  not 
but  admire  the  patience  and  perseverance  with 
which  he  had  pursued  his  favorite  objects, 
through  the  space  of  ten  years,  and  over  an 
extent  of  seven  or  eight  thousand  miles ;  and 
the  conviction  sunk  deep  into  my  mind,  that  to 
attain  to  great  excellence  in  any  pursuit,  the 
natural  bent  of  genius  must  be  followed,  and  its 
dictates  obeyed, 

C.  A.  L. 
21 


242 


THE   AIR    ORCHIS. 

BY  MRS.   JOSIAH    CONDER. 

Plant  of  ethereal  birth ! 

Too  exquisitely  wrought 
For  aliment  of  earth, 

Thy  rootless  garland,  fraught 
With  breaths  of  Heaven,  ruled  by  mysterious 

laws, 
.  ts  secret  life  from  viewless  fountains  draws. 

Fair  emblem  of  the  soul, 

That  lives  on  the  unseen , 
Surmounting  all  control, 

And  power  of  things  terrene ; — 
Unearthly  flower !  nurtured  on  essence  bright ! 
Thus  would  we  live  as  children  of  the  light. 


243 


STANZAS. 

"  Look  not  thou  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red." — Proverbs* 

Oh  !  soft  sleep  the  hills  in  their  sunny  repose, 
In  the  lands  of  the  south  where  the  wine  gayly 

grows, 
And  blithesome  the  hearts  of  the  vintagers  be 
In  the  grape-purpled  vales  in  the  isles  of  the  sea. 

And   bright   is   the  wine  when   its   splendor  js 

poured 
JMid  silver  and  gold  round  the  festival  board; 
When  the  magic  of  music  awakes  in  its  power, 
And  wit  gilds  the  fast-failing  sands  of  the  hour. 

Yet  lift  not  the  wine-cup,  though  pleasure  mry 

swim 
'Mid  the    bubbles  that  floatr  round  its  roseate 

brim, — 
For  dark  in  the  depths  of  the  fountain  below 
Lurk  the  sirens  that  lure  to  the  vortex  of  woe. 

They  have  led  the  gay  spirit  of  childhood  astray, 
While  it  dreamed  not  of  wiles  in  its  radiant  way ; 


244  STANZAS. 

And  the  soft  cheek  of  beauty  they've  paled  in  h* 

bloom, 
And  quenched  the  bright  eyes  in  the  damps  of 

the  tomb. 

They  have  torn  the  live  wreath  from  the  brow 

of  the  brave, 
And  changed  his  proud  heart  to  the  heart  of  a 

slave ; 
And  e'en  the  fair  fame  of  the  good  and  the  just, 
With  the  gray  hairs  of  age,  they  have  trod  to  the 

dust. 

Then  lift  not  the  wine-cup,  though  pleasure  may 

swim 
Like  an  angel  of  light  round  its  roseate  brim ; 
For  dark  in  the  depths  of  its  fountain  below, 
Lurk  the  spirits  that  lure  to  the  vortex  of  woe. 

W.   P.  Palmer. 


245 


THE    TRANSPLANTED    FLOWERS 

Nay,  hold,  sweet  lady,  thy  cruel  hand  ; 
Oh  !  sever  not  thus  our  kindred  band  ; 
And  look  not  upon  us  with  pitiless  eye, 
As  on  flowers  born  but  to  blossom  and  die, 

Together  we  drank  the  morning  dew, 
And  welcomed  the  glances  the  sunbeams  threw, 
And  together  our  sweets  we  were  wont  to  fling, 
When  Zephyr  swept  by  on  his  radiant  wing. 

When  the  purple  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
'Twas  sweet  to  murmur  our  low  farewell, 
And  together  with  fragrant  sighs  to  close 
Our  perfumed  blossoms  in  calm  repose. 

But  now,  with  none  to  respond  our  sigh, 
In  a  foreign  home  we  must  droop  and  die  : 
The  bonds  of  kindred  we  once  have  known, 
And  how  can  we  live  in  this  world  alone  1 

Oh  !  lady,  list  to  the  voice  of  mirth 
By  childhood  awakened  around  thy  hearth, 
And  think  how  lonely  thy  heart  would  pine, 
Should  fortune  the  ties  of  affection  untwine 


246  THE    TRANSPLANTED    FLOWERS. 

E'en  now,  in  the  midst  of  that  circle  blest, 
There  are  lonely  thoughts  in  thine  aching  breast ; 
And  how  wouldst  thou  weep,  if,  bereft  of  all, 
Thou  shouldst  sit  alone  in  thine  empty  hall ! 

Emma  C.  Embury 


247 


HEREWALD'S    FUNERAI 

flerewald  de  Wake  was  the  greatest  hero  of  his  age ;  he  resisted  the 
Conqueror  in  the  Isle  of  Ely,  and  after  a  life  of  glory,  was  buried  in 
C.'ayland  Monastery. 

BY   A   VERT   YOUNG  LADY. 

Night's  dismal  robe  was  darkly  flung 

O'er  abbey,  rock,  and  wave, 
When  bell  was  rung,  and  requiem  sung, 

Above  a  hero's  grave. 

The  surge  on  Ely's  shore  that  beat 

Kept  melancholy  time 
To  those  deep  voices,  wild  and  sweet, 

And  that  dull,  dreary  chime. 

The  sorrowing  sisters  of  the  cell, 

And  cowled  monks  were  there  ; 
Some  with  sad  tears  the  chorus  swell, 

Some  rend  with  sobs  the  air. 

"  To  thee  our  tears  and  prayers  belong, 

Redresser  of  our  woes, 
Avenger  of  our  country's  wrong, 

And  terror  of  our  foes. 


248  HEREWALDS    FUNERAL. 

"  Oh !  rest  thee  here — a  narrow  house 

Is  this,  for  one  like  thee, 
Whose  spirit,  as  the  ocean  foam 

Was  unconnned  and  free. 

"  Thou  shouldst  have  sought  thy  last  repose 

In  far  more  noble  place, 
Where  marble  monuments  inclose 

The  heroes  of  thy  race. 

"  The  son  of  kings — thou  shouldst  have  slept 

Where  mighty  monarchs  lie  ; 
Warriors  should  o'er  thy  tomb  have  wept, 

And  babes  been  taught  to  sigh. 

"  Yet  rest  thee  here  !  for  here  we  must 

To  earth  thy  corpse  assign, 
And  surely  trust  that  Norman  dust 

Shall  never  mix  with  thine. 

"  Yes  !  thou  whose  tameless  spirit  ne'er 

Confessed  a  conqueror's  sway, 
No  cold  neglect  hast  thou  to  fear, 

When  we  have  passed  away. 

"  Though  time  may  level  Crayland's  tower, 

Its  site  may  be  forgot, 
A  viewless  but  resistless  power 

Shall  hover  o'er  the  spot. 


herewald's  funeral.  249 

"  Its  impulse  shall  the  pilgrim  feel 

Unconscious  passing  by, 
And  o'er  thy  dust  he  soon  shall  kneel, 

Though  yet  he  knows  not  why. 

"  But  humbly  prostrating  his  head 

Upon  thy  lowly  tomb, 
Shall  prayer  be  said,  and  tear  be  shed, 

On  thy  last  earthly  home. 

"Yet  wherefore  weep  ? — a  blessed  place 

Thy  sepulchre  shall  be  ; 
Oh !  princely  son  of  princely  race, 

We  may  not  weep  for  thee. 

"  Now,  noble  Herewald !  take  thy  rest 

Beside  the  ebbing  wave  ; 
^ong  be  thy  glorious  memory  blest, 

Long  honored  be  thy  grave." 

Rosamund  Best. 


250 


THE     PILGRIM, 

BY  MISS  JANE  ROBERTS 
Author  of  "  Two  Year9  at  Sea 

Stranger,  whither  goest  thou  ? 

Where  wendest  thou  thy  way  ? 
^hy  step  is  feeble — form  is  bent, 

And  thy  few  locks  are  gray ! 

But  still,  though  furrowed  is  thy  brow, 
Thine  eye  is  clear  and  bright ; 

Think'st  thou  of  home,  and  that  thou'It  reach 
That  happy  home  ere  night  ? 

"  Oh !  mock  me  not,"  the  Pilgrim  said  : 

"  I  have  no  home  below  ; 
Many  years  have  passed  o'er  me, 

But  all  were  full  of  woe. 

"  My  step  is  feeble — form  is  bent, 

And  my  few  locks  are  gray  ; 
For  I  have  wandered  long  and  far. 

And  dreary  is  the  way. 


THE    PILGRIM.  251 

"  But  still,  though  furrowed  is  my  brow 

Mine  eye  is  clear  and  bright, 
Because  I  think  to  reach  my  home, 

Though  not,  I  fear,  to-night 

Si  The  home  to  which  I  wend  my  way, 

By  God  above  was  given, 
Through  Him  who  shed  his  blood  for  me ; 

My  home — my  home  is  heaven ! " 


252 


PSALM     XXIII. 

BY  JOSIAH    CONDER. 
Written  for  a  little  Boy. 

The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  and  I  am  His  sheep ; 
His  flock  He  from  want  and  from  danger  will  keep ; 
In  pastures  all  verdant  by  night  I  abide, 
And  he  chooses  my  path  where  the  cool  waters  glide. 

If  ever  I  wander,  as  silly  sheep  roam, 
He  seeks  his  poor  truant,  and  follows  me  home  ; 
Then  shows,  by  His  footsteps,  the  way  I  should  take, 
And,  true  to  His  promise,  will  never  forsake. 

When  gloomy  my  path,  the  deep  valleys  I  tread, 
All  darkness  before,  and  the  rocks  overhead ; 
My  Shepherd  is  with  me ;  why  fear  any  ill  ? 
His  crook  and  His  staff,  they  shall  comfort  me  still. 

My  enemies  frown,  but  they  can  do  no  more ; 
My  wants  are  supplied  till  my  cup  runneth  o'er ; 
Surely  goodness  and  mercy  my  days  shall  attend, 
Till  I  reach  the  bright  mansions  of  joy  without  end. 


